Toxin

FOURTEEN

Saturday night, January 24th

The windshield wipers tapped out a monotonous rhythm as Marsha rounded the final bend and got her first view of Higgins and Hancock. It was a sprawling, low-slung plant, with a vast, fenced-in stockyard in the rear. It looked ominous in the cold rain.

Marsha turned into the large, deserted parking lot. What cars that were there were widely scattered. When the three-to-eleven cleaning crew had arrived, the lot had been jammed with the day workers' vehicles.

Having visited the plant once during her orientation to the district, Marsha knew enough to drive around to the side. She recognized the unmarked door that was the employee entrance. Above it was a single caged light fixture which dimly lit the area.

Marsha parked, set the emergency brake, and turned off the engine; but she didn't get out. For a moment she sat and tried to bolster her confidence. After the conversation with Kim, she felt nervous about what she was about to do.

Prior to Kim's mentioning physical danger, Marsha had not considered it. Now she wasn't so sure. She'd heard plenty of stories of the industry's use of strong-arm tactics in its dealings with its immigrant employees and with union sympathizers. Consequently, she couldn't help but wonder how they might respond to the kind of threat her unauthorized activities would surely pose.

"You're being overly melodramatic," Marsha said out loud.

With sudden resolve, Marsha unhooked her cellular phone from its car cradle. She checked its battery.

"Well, here goes," she said as she alighted from the car.

It was raining harder than she expected, so she ran for the employee entrance. When she got there, she tried to yank open the door but found it locked. Next to the door was a button with a small plaque that said: AFTER HOURS. She pushed it.

After a half a minute and no response, Marsha rang the bell again and even rapped on the solid door with her fist. Just when she was thinking of returning to her car and calling the plant with her cell phone, the door swung open. A man in a brown-and-black security uniform looked out at her with a confused look on his face. Visitors were obviously a rarity.

Marsha flashed her USDA card and tried to push into the building. The man held his position, forcing her to remain in the rain.

"Let me see that," the guard said.

Marsha handed the man the card. He inspected it carefully, even reviewing the back.

"I'm a USDA inspector," Marsha said. She feigned irritation. "Do you really think it's appropriate to make me stand out here in the rain?"

"What are you doing here?" the man asked.

"What we inspectors always do," Marsha said. "I'm making sure federal rules are being followed."

The man finally backed up enough to allow Marsha to enter. She wiped moisture off her forehead and then shook it free from her hand.

"There's only cleaning going on now," the guard commented.

"I understand," Marsha said. "Could I please have my ID."

The guard handed back the card. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be in the USDA office," Marsha said over her shoulder. She was already on her way. She walked with determination and didn't look back, even though the guard's reaction had surprised her and added to her unease.

Bobby Bo Mason pulled the library's paneled mahogany door closed. The sound of merriment from the rest of the house was cut off abruptly. He turned to face his tuxedoed colleagues who were sprinkled around the library's interior. Represented were most of the city's businesses associated with beef and beef products: cattlemen, slaughterhouse directors, meat-processor presidents, and meat-distributor heads. Some of these men were sitting on dark-green velvet chairs; others were standing with their champagne glasses held close to their chests.

The library was one of Bobby Bo's favorite rooms. Under normal circumstances, every guest was made to come into it to admire its proportions. It was clad entirely in old-growth Brazilian mahogany. The carpet was an inch-thick antique Tabriz. Oddly, this "library" contained no books.

"Let's make this short so we can get back to more important things like eating and drinking," Bobby Bo said. His comment elicited some laughter. Bobby Bo enjoyed being the center of attention and was looking forward to his year as the president of the American Beef Alliance.

"The issue here is Miss Marsha Baldwin," Bobby Bo continued when he had everyone's attention.

"Excuse me," a voice said. "I'd like to say something."

Bobby Bo watched as Sterling Henderson got to his feet. He was a big man, with coarse features and a shock of startlingly silver hair.

"I'd like to apologize right from the top," Sterling said in a sad voice. "I've tried from day one to rein this woman in, but nothing's worked."

"We all understand your hands have been tied," Bobby Bo said. "I can assure you this little impromptu meeting is not to cast blame but rather to solve a problem. We were perfectly happy letting you deal with it until just today. What's made the Miss Baldwin issue a crisis is her sudden association with this crank doctor who got the media's attention with his ruckus about E. coli."

"It's an association that promises trouble," Everett said. "An hour ago we caught her and the doctor inside our patty room going through our logs."

"She brought the doctor into your plant?" Sterling questioned with horrified surprise.

"I'm afraid so," Everett said. "It gives you an idea of what we're up against. It's a critical situation. We're going to be facing another E. coli fiasco unless something is done."

"This E. coli nonsense is such a pain in the ass," Bobby Bo sputtered. "You know what really irks me about it? The goddamn poultry industry puts out a product that's almost a hundred percent swimming in either salmonella or campylobacter and nobody says boo. We, on the other hand, have a tiny problem with E. coli in what… two to three percent of our product and everybody's up in arms. What's fair about that, will someone tell me? What is it? Do they have a better lobby?"

The hushed jingle of a cellular phone resounded in the silence following Bobby Bo's passionate philippic. Half the occupants in the room reached into their tuxes. Only Daryl's unit was vibrating in sync with the sound. He withdrew to the far corner to take the call.

"I don't know how the poultry business gets away with what they do," Everett said. "But that shouldn't divert our attention at the moment. All I know is that the Hudson Meat management didn't survive their E. coli brouhaha. We have to do something and do it fast. That's my vote. I mean, what the hell did we form the Prevention Committee for anyway?"

Daryl flipped his phone closed and slipped it back into his inner jacket pocket. He rejoined the group. His face was more flushed than usual.

"Bad news?" Bobby Bo inquired.

"Sure as hell is," Daryl said. "That was my security out at Higgins and Hancock. Marsha Baldwin is there right now going through USDA records. She came in flashing her USDA card, saying she was there to make sure federal rules were being followed."

"She's not authorized even to be in there," Sterling asserted indignantly. "much less look at any records."

"There you go," Everett said. "Now I don't even think it's a topic for debate. I think our hand is forced."

"I'd tend to agree," Bobby Bo said. He gazed out at the others. "How does everyone else feel?"

There was a universal murmur of assent.

"Fine," Bobby Bo said. "Consider it done."

Those who were sitting stood up. Everybody moved toward the door that Bobby Bo threw open. Laughter and music and the smell of garlic wafted into the room.

Except for Bobby Bo, the men filed out of the room and went in search of their consorts. Bobby Bo went to his phone and placed a quick internal call. Hardly had he replaced the receiver, when Shanahan O'Brian leaned into the room.

Shanahan was dressed in a dark suit and muted tie. He was sporting the kind of earphone a Secret Service agent might wear. He was a tall Black Irish fellow, a refugee of the turmoil in Northern Ireland. Bobby Bo had hired him on the spot, and for the past five years, Shanahan had been heading up Bobby Bo's security staff. He and Bobby Bo got along famously.

"Did you call?" Shanahan asked.

"Come in and close the door," Bobby Bo said.

Shanahan did as he was told.

"The Prevention Committee has its first assignment," Bobby Bo said.

"Excellent," Shanahan said with his soft Gaelic accent.

"Sit down and I'll tell you about it," Bobby Bo said.

Five minutes later, the two men walked out of the library. In the foyer they parted company. Bobby Bo went to the threshold of the sunken living room and looked out over the crowd of revelers. "How come it's so quiet in here!" Bobby Bo shouted. "What is this, a funeral? Come on, let's party!"

…

From the foyer, Shanahan descended into the underground garage. He got into his black Cherokee and drove out into the night. He took the ring road around the city, pushing his car as much as he thought he could get away with. He exited the freeway and drove due west. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a rutted, gravel parking lot of a popular nightspot called El Toro. On top of the building was a life-sized red neon outline of a bull. Shanahan parked at the periphery, leaving a wide space between his vehicle and the other mostly broken-down pickup trucks. He didn't want anybody opening their doors and denting his new car.

Even before he got near the entrance to the bar, he could hear the thundering bass of the Hispanic music; inside it was just shy of overpowering. The popular watering hole was crowded and smoke-filled. The patrons were mostly men, although there were a few brightly dressed, raven-haired women. There was a long bar on one side and a series of booths on the other. In the middle were tables and chairs and a small dance floor. An old-fashioned, brightly illuminated jukebox was against the wall. In the back was an archway through which a series of pool tables could be seen.

Shanahan scanned the people at the bar. He didn't see whom he was looking for. He walked down the bank of booths with no success. Giving up, he approached the busy bar. He literally had to squeeze between people. Then there was the problem of getting the bartender's attention.

Waving a ten-dollar bill finally succeeded where shouts did not. Shanahan handed the bill to the man.

"I'm looking for Carlos Mateo," Shanahan yelled.

The money disappeared as if it were a magic trick.

The bartender didn't speak. He merely pointed to the back of the room and mimed the motion of shooting pool.

Shanahan weaved his way across the small dance floor. The backroom was not quite as crowded as the front. He found the man he was searching for at the second table.

Shanahan had spent a good deal of time and effort recruiting for the proposed Prevention Committee. After following up multiple leads and after a lot of interviewing, he'd settled on Carlos. Carlos had escaped from prison in Mexico and had been on the run. Six months previously, he'd managed to cross into the United States on his first attempt. He'd come to Higgins and Hancock in desperate need of a job.

What had impressed Shanahan about the man was his cavalier attitude toward death. Although Carlos was reticent concerning the details, Shanahan learned that the reason he'd been imprisoned in Mexico was because he had knifed to death an acquaintance. In his job at Higgins and Hancock, Carlos was involved in the deaths of more than two thousand animals per day. Emotionally he seemed to view the activity of killing on par with cleaning his truck.

Shanahan stepped into the cone of light illuminating the second pool table. Carlos was in the process of lining up a shot and didn't respond to Shanahan's greeting. Shanahan had to wait.

"Mierda!"Carlos exclaimed when his ball refused to drop. He slapped the table's rail and straightened up. Only then did he look at Shanahan.

Carlos was a dark-haired, dark-complected wiry man with multiple flamboyant tattoos on both arms. His face was dominated by bushy eyebrows, a pencil-line mustache, and hollow cheeks. His eyes were like black marbles. Over his torso he was wearing a black leather vest that showed off his lean musculature as well as his tattoos. He was not wearing a shirt.

"I've got a job for you," Shanahan said. "A job like we talked about. You interested? It's got to be now."

"You pay me, I'm interested," Carlos said. He had a strong Spanish accent.

"Come with me," Shanahan directed. He pointed through the archway toward the front door.

Carlos handed off his cue stick, gave a couple of crumpled bills to his complaining opponent, then followed Shanahan.

The two men didn't try to talk until they were outside.

"I don't know how you can stand that noise in there for more than five minutes," Shanahan remarked.

"How come, man?" Carlos asked. "It's good music."

With the rain falling steadily, Shanahan brought Carlos to his Cherokee and the two men climbed inside.

"Let's make this fast," Shanahan said. "The name is Marsha Baldwin. She's an attractive, tall blonde who's about twenty-five."

Carlos's face twisted into a grin of pleasure, making his mustache look like two dashes under his narrow nose.

"The reason you got to move fast," Shanahan explained, "is because at this very moment she's where you work."

"She's at Higgins and Hancock?" Carlos asked.

"That's right," Shanahan said. "She's in the admin section looking into records she's not supposed to. You won't be able to miss her. If you have trouble finding her, ask the guard. He's supposed to keep his eye on her."

"How much you pay?" Carlos asked.

"More than we talked about, providing you do it now," Shanahan said. "I want you to go this minute."

"How much?" Carlos asked.

"A hundred now and two hundred later if she disappears without a trace." Shanahan said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He held it up so Carlos could see it. It was bathed in red light from the neon bull.

"What about my job?" Carlos asked.

"Like I promised," Shanahan said. "I'll get you off the kill floor by the end of the month. Where do you want to go, the boning room or the carcass room?"

"The boning room," Carlos said.

"So we have a deal?" Shanahan.

"Sure," Carlos said. He took the bill, folded it, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He started to get out of the car. It was as if he'd been asked to rake leaves or shovel snow.

"Don't screw it up," Shanahan said.

"It's going to be easy with her in Higgins and Hancock," Carlos said.

"That's what we figured," Shanahan said.

Lifting her arms over her head, Marsha stretched. She'd been bending over the open file-cabinet drawer long enough to make her back stiff. She used her hip to close the drawer, and it made a definitive click as it slid home. Picking up her cellular phone, she headed for the USDA office door. While she walked, she punched in Kim's phone number.

As the call went through, she opened the door and looked up and down the silent hall. She was pleased not to see anyone. While she'd been going through the files, she'd heard the guard pass by and even hesitate outside the door on several occasions. He'd not bothered her, but his loitering had raised her anxiety level. She knew that if he approached her, she'd feel trapped in the seemingly deserted building. She'd not seen a single one of the cleaning people who were supposed to be there.

"This better be you," Kim said without saying hello.

"That's a strange way to answer the phone," Marsha said with a nervous laugh. She closed the USDA office door and started up the deserted hall.

"It's about time you called," Kim said.

"I haven't had any luck so far," Marsha said, ignoring Kim's complaint.

"What's taken you so long to call?" Kim demanded.

"Hey, cool it," Marsha said. "I've been busy. You have no idea how much paperwork the USDA requires. There's daily sanitation reports, disposition records, livestock slaughter reports, process deficiency records, kill-order reports, and purchase invoices. I've had to go through all of it for January ninth."

"What did you find?" Kim asked.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Marsha said. She came to a door with a frosted-glass panel. Stenciled on the glass was the word: RECORDS. She tried the door. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it behind her.

"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 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 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.

As he turned into the parking area in front of the immense plant, Kim noticed there were only a few parked cars scattered through the lot. He saw Marsha's car at one end, nowhere near the entrance.

Kim pulled up directly opposite the front door. He leaped out. He tried the door. It was locked. He banged on it with his fist. Cupping his hands around his face, he peered inside. All he could see was a dimly lit, deserted corridor. There was no security guard in sight.

Kim listened. There was no sound. His anxiety mounted. Stepping back from the door, he surveyed the front of the building. There were a number of windows facing the parking lot.

Kim stepped off the concrete entrance slab and quickly moved north along the side of the building. He looked into each window he came to and tried it. They were all locked.

When he peered into the third window, he saw file cabinets, upended chairs, and what he guessed was Marsha's phone on the table. Like the others, the window was locked. Without a second's hesitation, he bent down and picked up one of the stout rocks lining the edge of the parking area. Hefting it up to shoulder height, he tossed it through the window. The sound of shattering glass was followed by a tremendous crash as the rock bounced off the wooden floor and collided with a number of the upended chairs.

Carlos paused and listened. From where he was standing in the head-boning room, the place where cattle heads were stripped of their cheeks and tongues, the sound of Kim's rock came through as merely a muffled thump. Yet as an experienced burglar, he knew he could not ignore any unexpected noises; invariably they spelled trouble.

Carlos closed the top of the combo bin then turned out the light. He slipped out of the bloody white coat and pulled off the gauntlet-length, yellow rubber gloves he was wearing. He stowed these items under a sink. Picking up his knife, he moved silently but swiftly from the boning room out into the kill floor. There he doused the light as well. Once again he stopped to listen. He would have retreated up the cattle chute except he wasn't quite finished.

Kim had climbed through the window headfirst. He did his best to avoid the shards of broken glass on the floor but wasn't entirely successful. As he got to his feet he had to brush a few small slivers gingerly from his palms. With that accomplished, he scanned the room. He saw a blinking red light on a motion detector high in one corner but ignored it.

The abandoned cell phone, the upended chairs, as well as a broken panel of glass in the door to the front hall immediately convinced Kim that he was standing in the room where Marsha had been when she called him. He also noticed the open door at the rear of the room and guessed after being surprised she'd fled in that direction.

Dashing to this second door, Kim looked down the length of a deserted back hallway. He paused to listen. There wasn't a sound, a fact which only fanned his ever building anxiety.

Kim started down the corridor, rapidly opening each door he came to. He glanced into storerooms, cleaning closets, a locker room, and several restrooms. At the far end of the hall, he came to a lunchroom. He paused at the threshold. What caught his attention was the trail of overturned chairs leading to a rear door. Kim followed the trail out the rear door and up a half flight of steps. He yanked open the fire door and stepped through.

Kim again paused. He didn't know what to do. He found himself in a room filled with a labyrinth of machinery and raised metal platforms that cast grotesque shadows.

Kim noticed a cloyingly fetid smell that was vaguely familiar. His mind struggled to make the association. Within seconds he had the answer. The odor reminded him of observing an autopsy as a second-year medical student. He shuddered against the mostly suppressed, unpleasant memory.

"Marsha!" Kim yelled in desperation. "Marsha!"

There was no response. The only thing Kim could hear were the numerous echoes of his own frantic voice.

To Kim's immediate right was a fire station with an extinguisher, a long, heavy-duty flashlight, and a cabinet with glass-paneled doors that revealed a canvas fire hose and long-handled firefighter's axe. Kim snatched the flashlight from its bracket and turned it on. Its concentrated beam illuminated narrow conic sections of the room and cast even more grotesque shapes onto the walls.

Kim set out into the alien world, shining the light in fast-moving arcs. He proceeded in a clockwise direction, skirting past the machinery to explore more thoroughly.

After a few minutes, he paused and again yelled out Marsha's name. Besides his echoes, all he could hear was the sound of dripping water.

Ahead the flashlight beam swept across a grate. Kim moved it back. Over the center of the grate was a dark smear. Advancing to the grate, he bent down, and shined the light directly on the smear. Hesitantly he reached out with his index finger and touched it. A chill went down his spine. It was blood!

Carlos had pressed himself against the wall of the head-boning room, at the very lip of the doorless opening to the kill-room floor. He'd been retreating from Kim's relentless advance. Carlos had first seen Kim as he'd come down the back hallway clearly on a searching mission.

Carlos had no idea who this stranger was and had first hoped the man would content himself with wandering around the office area of the plant. But once Kim had come into the kill floor and had yelled out Marsha's name, Carlos knew he'd have to kill him.

Carlos was not dismayed. Contingencies were a factor in such work. Besides, Carlos figured he'd be paid more, maybe even double. He also wasn't concerned about the stranger's size and probable strength. Carlos had experience and the benefit of surprise, and, most important, he had his favorite knife, which at the moment he was holding in his right hand up alongside his head.

Cautiously Carlos eased his head out into the opening so he could see into the kill-floor area. It was easy to keep track of the stranger now, thanks to the flashlight. Carlos saw the man straighten up from the grate at Carlos's workstation.

All at once the flashlight shined directly at Carlos. He retreated from the beam. careful to keep the knife blade from flashing in the darkness. He held his breath as the stranger edged closer, again probing the kill floor with sweeping motions of his shaft of light.

Carlos flattened himself against the wall and tensed his muscles. The stranger was coming into the boning room as Carlos had anticipated. The searching flashlight beam flickered around the room in a progressively brighter fashion. Carlos could feel his pulse sky rocket as adrenaline coursed around his body. It was a sensation he loved. It was like popping speed.

Kim knew he was in a slaughterhouse that had been in operation that day, so finding blood shouldn't have come as a surprise. Yet the blood he'd found was unclotted and appeared fresh. He hated to think it could have been Marsha's; the chance that it was brought back his familiar fury. Now he wanted to find her with even more urgency than earlier, and if she were indeed injured, he wanted to find the individual responsible.

After having searched the kill floor, Kim decided to widen his search to other areas of the huge plant. He headed to the only open passageway he'd seen, on guard against the person or persons who had already spilled blood.

In the next instant it was his wariness that saved him. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected sudden movement coming at him from the side. Reacting by reflex, he leaped ahead and used the long flashlight to parry what he perceived as a thrust.

Carlos had lunged from the shadows, hoping to skewer Kim in the side with a quick stab, withdraw the knife, and retreat. He'd planned to finish Kim off once Kim had been weakened. But the knife missed its mark and only succeeded in producing a shallow cut across the top of Kim's hand.

As Carlos tried to regain his balance, Kim hit him with the flashlight. It was a glancing blow to the shoulder that didn't hurt Carlos although, catching him off balance, it knocked him to the ground. Before Carlos could scramble to this feet, Kim took off. He ran through the head-boning room into the main boning room. This next room was almost the size of the kill floor and somewhat darker. It was filled with a maze of long stainless-steel tables and conveyer belts. Above was a web of metal-grate catwalks where supervisors could survey the butchering of the carcasses into known cuts of meat on the tables below.

Kim searched frantically for some kind of weapon to counter the long knife. Having turned off the flashlight and afraid to turn it back on, he could only grope blindly along the tables. He found nothing.

A large, empty, plastic trash barrel fell over when Kim stumbled against it. Desperately, he reached out to keep it from rolling around and further giving away his position. Looking back at the passageway into the head-boning room, Kim could see the silhouette of the man with the knife. He was backlit for a brief instant before silently slipping into the shadows.

Kim trembled with fear. He was being stalked by an obvious killer armed with a knife in a dark, totally alien environment with no way to protect himself. He knew he had to stay hidden. He could not let this man get near him. Although he'd managed to elude the first thrust, Kim was smart enough to understand that he probably wouldn't be so lucky a second time.

The sudden high-pitched sound heralding the start-up of electronic equipment made Kim jump. All around him the tangle of conveyer belts commenced their noisy operation. Simultaneously the room was flooded with bright, fluorescent light. Kim's heart leaped into his throat. Any chance of remaining hidden in the mazelike room evaporated.

Kim crouched as best he could behind the plastic trash barrel. By looking beneath the boning tables he saw the tattooed man pursuing him. The stranger was advancing slowly along the back aisle with both hands held up in the air. His right hand clasped the knife that looked to Kim to be about the size of a machete.

Kim panicked. Carlos was only one aisle away. Kim knew the man would see him the moment he looked down the aisle Kim was in. It was only a matter of seconds.

Impulsively Kim leaped to his feet while grasping the plastic trash barrel with both hands. Shouting like a Celtic warrior commencing battle, he charged directly at his stalker. Using the plastic barrel like a shield, Kim collided with the knife-wielding Mexican.

Carlos was bowled over. Although shocked by the unexpected charge and powerful impact, Carlos had the presence of mind to hold on to the knife.

Kim's momentum carried him well beyond Carlos. He tossed aside the plastic container and sprinted the length of the main boning room. Kim knew he'd only succeeded in knocking his pursuer down: he'd by no means put him out of commission. Sensing his best chance was to again flee, he passed through a second doorless opening to find himself in a cold, misty, dimly lit forest of cattle carcasses. Each had been sawed in half and hung from a hook attached to a roller system in the ceiling. The only light came from widely spaced ceiling lights along a central corridor separating the long rows of cooling carcasses.

Kim sprinted along the central corridor desperately looking for a place to hide. The chill room was cold enough so he could see his breath as he panted. He hadn't gone far when he came to a cross aisle down which he caught a welcome glimpse of the green glow of an exit sign. He made a beeline for it only to discover that the door was secured with a chain and a heavy-duty padlock.

Kim then heard the distant but unmistakable sound of his pursuer's heels clicking against the concrete floor. Kim could tell he was approaching, and Kim panicked again. Moving as quickly as he could along the narrow periphery of the carcass room, Kim hunted for another exit. Unfortunately when he found it, it too was chained shut.

Discouraged, Kim continued on. The room was gargantuan. Squeezing between the outer wall and the hanging carcasses, it took Kim several minutes to reach the corner, where he turned ninety degrees. Here his progress was faster. Just before he reached the central corridor that ran the length of the room, he came to an interior door. He tried it, and to his relief, it opened into a dark room. Next to the door was a light switch. Kim flipped it on. The room was a large storeroom with steel shelving.

Kim ducked into the room with the desperate hope of finding something to use as a weapon. He made a quick circuit of the space but had no luck. All he found were small, spare parts including replacement ball bearings for the overhead rail system plus a cardboard box of rubber stamps used by the USDA inspectors to grade meat "select," "choice," or "prime." The only sizable object was a broom.

Thinking the broom might be better than nothing, Kim picked it up. Returning to the front of the room, he was about to exit, when he again heard the footfalls of his pursuer. The man was close, no more than twenty feet away, approaching along the nearby central aisle!

Panicking again, Kim pulled the storeroom's door closed as quickly and as silently as possible. Holding the broom in both hands by the tip of its handle, he flattened himself against the wall just to the right of the door.

The sound of the footsteps stopped. Kim could hear the man cursing. Then the footfalls recommenced, increasing in intensity until they stopped just outside the door.

Kim held his breath. He gripped the broom handle harder. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened. Then he saw the door handle begin to turn. The man was coming in!

Kim's heart raced. The door was yanked open. As soon as Kim sensed the man was starting in. he gritted his teeth and swung the broom at chest height with all the strength he could muster. By chance he hit the man full in the face, knocking him back through the door. The surprise and the force of the impact dislodged the knife, and it tumbled to the floor.

Still holding the broom in his left hand, Kim leaped for the knife. He seized it, only to discover it was a flashlight, not a knife.

"Freeze!" a voice commanded.

Kim straightened up and looked into the blinding glare of another flashlight. Instinctively he raised his hand to shield his eyes. Now he could make out the man on the floor. It wasn't the Mexican but rather a man dressed in a brown Higgins and Hancock shirt. It was a security guard, and he had both hands clasped to his face. Blood was coming out of his nose.

"Drop the broom," a voice behind the glare commanded.

Kim let go of both the flashlight and the broom. Both fell to the floor with a clatter.

The bright beam of the flashlight was lowered, and to Kim's utter relief, he found himself facing two uniformed policemen. The one without the flashlight was holding his pistol in both hands, pointed directly at Kim.

"Thank God!" Kim managed, despite looking down the barrel of a gun less than ten feet away.

"Shut up!" the policeman with the gun commanded. "Get out here and face the wall!"

Kim was only too happy to comply. He stepped out of the storeroom and put his hands against the wall as he'd seen done in movies.

"Frisk him," the policeman said.

Kim felt hands run up and down his arms, legs, and torso.

"He's clean."

"Turn around!"

Kim did as he was told, keeping his hands raised to avoid any confusion as to his intentions. He was close enough to read the officers' name tags. The man with the gun was Douglas Foster. The other was Leroy McHalverson. The security guard had gotten up and was dabbing at his newly bent nose with a handkerchief. The metal portion of the whisk had hit him with enough force to break it.

"Cuff him," Douglas said.

"Hey, hold on!" Kim said. "I'm not the one you should be cuffing."

"Really?" Douglas questioned superciliously. "Who would you suggest?"

"There's someone else in here," Kim said. "A dark, wiry-looking guy with tattoos and a huge knife."

"And wearing a hockey mask, no doubt," Douglas said scoffingly. "And his name is Jason."

"I'm serious," Kim said. "The reason I'm here is because of a woman named Marsha Baldwin."

The two policemen exchanged glances.

"Honest!" Kim maintained. "She's a USDA inspector. She was here doing some work. I was talking with her by phone when someone surprised her. I heard breaking glass and a struggle. When I got here looking for her to help her, I was attacked by a man with a knife, presumably the man who attacked Ms. Baldwin."

The policemen remained skeptical.

"Look, I'm a surgeon at the University Med Center," Kim said. He fumbled in the pocket of his soiled white coat. Douglas 's grip on his pistol tightened. Kim produced his laminated hospital ID. card and handed it to Douglas. Douglas motioned for Leroy to take it.

"It looks authentic," Leroy said after a quick inspection.

"Of course it's authentic," Kim said.

"Have you doctors given up on personal hygiene?" Douglas asked.

Kim ran a hand through his scruffy beard and glanced down at his dirty coat and scrubs. He'd not showered, shaved, or changed clothes since early Friday morning. "I know I look a little worse for wear," he said. "There's an explanation. But for the moment I'm more concerned about Ms. Baldwin and the whereabouts of that man with a knife."

"What about it, Curt?" Douglas asked the security man. "Was there a woman USDA inspector here or a strange, dark, tattooed man?"

"Not to my knowledge," Curt said. "At least they didn't come in while I've been on duty. I came on at three o'clock this afternoon."

"She was talking to me on her cell phone. It's in the record room."

"That's creative," Douglas commented. "I have to give you credit for that." He looked at Curt. "Do you think we could take a look? I mean it's on our way out."

"Of course," Curt said.

While Curt led the way to the record room with Kim and Douglas in tow, Leroy went out to the squad car to make contact with the station. At the record-room threshold, Curt stepped aside and let the others enter. Once inside, Kim was immediately crestfallen. The chairs had been righted; more important, the phone was gone. "It was here, I swear," he said. "And a number of these chairs were upended."

"I didn't see any phone when I came in here to investigate the break-in," Curt said. "And the chairs were as you see them now."

"What about the broken glass-door panel?" Kim said excitedly. He pointed at the door to the front hall. "I'm sure that was the shattering noise I heard while I was on the phone with her."

"I assumed the door was just part of the break-in," Curt said. "Along with the window."

"It couldn't be," Kim said. "I broke the window, but the door panel was already broken when I got here. Look, all the glass from the door panel is on the inside. Whoever did it was in the hall."

"Hmm," Douglas said. He stared down at the broken glass at the base of the door. "He does have a point."

"Her car!" Kim said, getting another idea. "It has to be outside still. It's a yellow Ford sedan. It's parked at the end of the building."

Before Douglas could respond to this new suggestion, Leroy returned from the squad car. A wry smile lit up his broad face. "I just got off the radio with the station," he said. 'They ran a quick check for me on the good doctor, and guess what? He's got a sheet. He was arrested just last night for trespassing, resisting arrest, striking a police officer, and assault and battery on a fast-food manager. Currently he's out of the slammer on his own recognizance."

"My, my," Douglas said. "A repeat offender! Okay, Doc, enough of this nonsense. You're going downtown."