Toxin

SIXTEEN

Monday, January 26th

Tracy shifted her weight impatiently. She had her arms folded and was leaning against the plaster wall of the upstairs hall. She'd positioned herself directly across from the door into the guest bath. She'd been there for almost five minutes.

"Well?" Tracy called through the door.

"Are you ready?" Kim's voice answered.

"I've been ready," Tracy answered. "Open the door!"

The door squeaked open. Tracy 's hand shot to her mouth and she let out an involuntary giggle.

Kim looked completely different. His hair was unevenly cut short, teased to stand mostly upward, and bleached platinum blond. His eyebrows matched his hair in color and formed a stark contrast with the dark stubble-covered face. The sutured laceration wrapping over the bridge of his nose and extending through one blond eyebrow gave him a Frankenstein look. He was dressed in a black, double-flap pocket corduroy shirt over a black T-shirt with black leather pants. He had a black leather belt and matching bracelet decorated with stainless-steel rivets. The outfit was topped off with a fake diamond-stud earring in his left earlobe and a tattoo of a wolf with the word "lobo" on his right upper arm.

"So what do you think?" Kim asked.

"You look bizarre!" Tracy said. "Especially with the black silk stitches. I'd hate to run into you in a dark alley."

"That sounds like the effect I was striving for," Kim said.

"You certainly don't look like anybody I'd want to know," Tracy added.

"In that case maybe I should swing by the hospital," Kim suggested. "Maybe with this outfit they'll reinstate my privileges without a hearing."

"A doctor is the last thing I'd suspect you were," Tracy said with another laugh. "I particularly like the tattoo."

Kim lifted his arm to admire his handiwork. "Pretty cool, huh?" he said. "The directions guaranteed it would last for three or four days, provided I don't shower. Can you imagine?"

"Where's the microphone?" Tracy asked.

"Right here under my collar," Kim said. He rolled over the upper edge of the shirt. A tiny microphone was safety-pinned to the underside.

"Too bad video was out of the question," Tracy said.

"Hey, remember it's not completely out of the question," Kim said. "Lee said he'd work on it, and when he says that, nine times out of ten he comes through. It just won't be for a few days."

"Let's test the audio system," Tracy suggested. "I want to make sure it's working as well as it did last night in Lee's garage."

"Good idea," Kim said. "You hop in your car and drive down to the corner. That should be just about right. Lee said it would work up to two hundred yards."

"Where will you be?" Tracy asked.

"I'll move around inside the house," Kim said. "I'll even try going down into the basement."

Tracy nodded and went down to the hall closet. She got out her coat, then called back up the stairs. "Don't forget to put in your earphone, too."

"I already have it in," Kim yelled.

Tracy went out into the crisp morning. A wind had come up during the night, blowing the storm clouds to the East. In their place was pale blue sky.

Tracy got into her car, started it, and drove to the corner as they'd discussed. She pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Next she opened her driver's-side window and put a makeshift antenna on the roof of her car.

Inside the car, Tracy slipped on a pair of stereo earphones that were attached to an old-style reel-to-reel tape recorder. The tape recorder was wired to an amplifier, which in turn was connected to a transformer sitting on top of a freestanding car battery.

A red light on the front panel of the amplifier illuminated when Tracy turned the unit on. She heard some brief static in her earphones, but it cleared quickly. On top of the amplifier was a microphone. Tracy picked it up.

After glancing outside her car to make sure none of her neighbors were watching, she spoke into the microphone.

"Kim, can you hear me?" she asked.

Kim's voice came back so loud, Tracy winced. "I can hear you like you were standing right next to me," he said.

Tracy quickly turned down the volume and pressed the start button on the tape recorder.

"How's your volume?" Tracy asked. "You were much too loud on this end."

"It's fine," Kim said.

"Where are you?" Tracy asked.

"I'm in the back part of the basement," Kim said. "If it works here, I'm pretty sure it's going to work anyplace."

"It is surprisingly clear," Tracy admitted.

"Well, come on back," Kim said. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Ten-four," Tracy said. She had no idea what the expression meant but had heard it in lots of movies and TV shows.

She took off the headphones and stopped the tape. She rewound it and then played it. She was pleased that both sides of the conversation came through perfectly clearly.

By the time Tracy got back to the house, Kim had everything they intended to take waiting by the front door. They'd packed lunches and filled thermos bottles, banking on Kim being hired on the spot. They also had a blanket and extra sweaters for Tracy. Kim was sure it would be cold sitting in the car all day.

They stowed everything in the backseat. Kim climbed in the back, too, since the front passenger seat was taken up by the electronic equipment.

Tracy slid behind the wheel and was about to start the car when she thought of something else.

"Where's your gun?" she asked.

"It's upstairs in the guestroom," Kim said.

"I think you should have it," Tracy said.

"I don't want to carry a gun in the slaughterhouse," Kim said.

"Why not?" Tracy asked. "God forbid, what if you have to face that creep with the knife again?"

Kim considered the suggestion. There were reasons against taking it. First, Kim was afraid the gun might somehow be discovered. Second, he'd never once fired it and didn't know if he could actually shoot someone. But then he remembered the panic he'd felt when he'd been chased by the man with the knife and how he'd wished he'd had some kind of weapon.

"All right," Kim said. He opened the door, took Tracy 's keys, and returned to the house. A few minutes later, he climbed back into the car and handed the keys to Tracy.

Tracy started the car and was about to back up.

"Wait a sec," Kim said. "There's something else."

Tracy turned the ignition key. The engine coughed and died. With a confused expression, she faced around at Kim. "What now?" she asked.

Kim was staring up at the house. "I was just thinking about that creep being in my house when we arrived last night," Kim said. "I don't want to be surprised like that again. It's not entirely inconceivable that they could trace me here."

"What do you propose?" Tracy asked with a shudder.

"Are any of your neighbors particularly nosy?" Kim asked. "These houses are all pretty close together."

"There's Mrs. English across the street," Tracy said. "She's an elderly widow who I swear must spend the whole day looking out the window."

"That's a start," Kim said. "Let's ask her to keep an eye out until we get back. Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Tracy said.

"But that's not enough," Kim said. "We got to have backups. It's got to be one-hundred-percent sure. How many doors into the house?"

"Just the usual front door and back door," Tracy said.

"What about the basement?" Kim asked.

"The only way into the basement is through the house," Tracy said.

"The guy last night came through the back sliders," Kim said, while thinking out loud.

"This house has no sliders," Tracy said.

"Good." He got out of the car. Tracy did the same.

"Why not do something to the doors so we'd know if they'd been opened," Tracy suggested. "I mean for someone to get in, they'd have to break a window or go through one of the doors. When we get back we can cheek."

"That's a good idea," Kim said. "But then what would we do?"

"Well, we sure as hell won't go in the house," Tracy said.

"Where would we go?" Kim asked. "We wouldn't want to be followed."

Tracy shrugged. "A motel, I guess."

"I know what we'll do," Kim said. "On the way out to Higgins and Hancock, we'll stop by the bank. We'll pull out our savings as a fallback. If we're really worried about being followed, credit cards aren't the best idea."

"Wow, you really are thinking ahead," Tracy said. "In that case, we might as well grab our passports too."

"Listen, I'm being serious," Kim complained.

"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 expose, 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. "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 store-rooms 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 mid-calf. 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-rubber like 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. Power lines draped about the space in a bewildering fashion, like pieces of a huge spider web. It was a surreal, Dante-esque 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 kill 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.

"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 mid-sentence. 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.

At 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 ticket 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. Sporting 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 headphones 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.

After a furtive glance around to make sure no one else was watching her. Tracy slipped the stereo headphones back on and closed her eyes. The problem was she had to concentrate to hear what Kim was saying. The general din inside the plant had forced her to turn the volume down quite low.

Kim had moved all the way around the eviscerating area and now had a view of the whole slaughtering process. He could see the cows being killed, hoisted up, and their throats being slit. Next they were skinned and decapitated with the heads going off on a separate overhead conveyer system. After the evisceration the carcasses were sawed in half lengthwise by a frightful saw far beyond the gruesome conceptions of Hollywood horror movie producers.

Kim glanced at his watch to time the rapidity with which the wretched animals were killed. He was astonished. With his chin down on his chest he spoke into his microphone.

"Let's hope Lee Cook can come up with an appropriate video system," he said. "It's going to be a snap to document Marsha's major point. She said the problem concerning contamination in the meat industry was in the slaughterhouse. She said it was simply profit over safety. I just timed the activity here. They're slaughtering the cattle at the unbelievable rate of one every twelve seconds. At that speed, there's no way to avoid gross contamination.

"And talk about collusion between the USDA and the industry. it's even evident on this operational level. Up on the catwalks there are a few inspectors. They stand out like black sheep. They wear red hard hats instead of yellow and their white coats are comparatively clean. But they're doing more laughing and joking with the workers than inspecting. I mean the inspecting is pure sham. Not only is the line moving too fast; these guys are hardly even looking at the carcasses as they whip by."

Kim suddenly caught sight of Jed Street nosing around the eviscerating tables and sinks. Kim recommenced his sweeping with his push broom. He moved away from Jed in a counterclockwise direction and soon found himself in the decapitation area. The beheading was done by another saw only slightly less appalling than the saw used to cut the carcasses in two. Just before the spine was completely severed by the man wielding the saw, another man caught the hundred-plus-pound head with a hook dangling from the head conveyer rail. It was a process that required coordination and teamwork.

Continuing his cleaning efforts, Kim followed the line of the skinned heads. With their lids gone the lifeless eyes gave the heads a curiously surprised look as they clanked along.

Kim followed the head conveyer to a point where it disappeared through an aperture into an adjoining room. Kim immediately recognized the room as the place where he'd been attacked Saturday night.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked for Jed. When he didn't see him in the pandemonium, Kim took a chance that Jed wouldn't miss him and walked through the doorless opening into the head-boning room.

"I've come into the room where the heads go," Kim said into his microphone. "This is potentially important in how Becky happened to get sick. Marsha had found something in the paperwork about the head of the last animal on the day the meat for Becky's hamburger might have been slaughtered. She said it was 'revolting', which I now find curious, since I find the whole process revolting."

Kim watched for a moment as the head conveyer dumped a head every twelve seconds onto a table where it was attacked by a team of butchers. Knives similar to the ones used to slit the animals' throats quickly cut out the huge cheek muscles and the tongues. The workers took this meat and tossed it into a two-thousand-pound combo bin similar to those Kim had seen at Mercer Meats.

"I'm learning something every minute," Kim said. "There must be a lot of cow cheeks in hamburger."

Kim noticed that after the cheeks and tongues were removed, the cow heads were pushed onto a flat conveyer belt that dumped them ignominiously into a black hole that presumably led to the basement.

"I think I might have to visit the basement," Kim said reluctantly. He had the sense that his childhood fear of basements would be put to the test.

So far it had been a good day as far as Jed Street was concerned, despite its being Monday. He'd had a great breakfast that morning, had gotten to work early enough to sit and have a second cup of coffee with several of the other supervisors, and had had to face fewer absenteeisms than usual. Finding and keeping decent help was Jed's biggest headache.

With none of his key day employees having called in sick, Jed was confident that his team would have processed close to two thousand head by the lunch break.

That made Jed happy because he knew it would make his immediate boss, Lenny Striker, happy.

Jed slipped out of his white coat and hung it up. Wanting to catch up on his paperwork, he'd retreated to his office with his third cup of coffee of the day. He walked around his desk and sat down. Pen in hand, he went to work. He had a considerable number of forms that had to be filled out each and every day.

Jed hadn't been working long when his phone rang. He reached for his coffee before picking up the receiver. He was relatively unconcerned about getting a call so late in the morning and could not imagine it would be particularly serious. At the same time he knew there was always a chance. Being in charge of something as potentially dangerous as a kill floor, he knew that disaster was never far away.

"Hello," Jed said, overemphasizing the first syllable. He took a sip of coffee.

" Jed Street, this is Daryl Webster. Do you have a moment to speak with me?"

Jed spat out his coffee, then scrambled to wipe the brew off his forms. "Of course, Mr. Webster," Jed sputtered. He'd worked for Higgins and Hancock for fourteen years, and during that time the real boss had never called him.

"I got a call from one of Bobby Bo's people," Daryl explained. "He told me that we've employed a new slop boy just today."

"That's correct," Jed said. He felt his face heat up. Hiring illegal aliens was tacitly condoned while the official policy was that it was forbidden. Jed hoped to God he wasn't going to end up being a scapegoat.

"What's this man's name?" Daryl asked.

Jed frantically searched through the papers on his desk. He'd written the name down, although not on any employment forms. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it.

"José Ramerez, sir!" Jed said.

"Did he show you any identification?" Daryl asked.

"Not that I recall," Jed said evasively.

"What did he look like?"

"He is a little strange-looking," Jed said. Jed was confused. He couldn't fathom what difference it made what the man looked like.

"Could you give me an idea?" Daryl asked.

"Kind of punk" Jed said, trying to think how his fourteen-year-old son would describe the man. "Bleached hair, earring, tattoos, leather pants."

"Is he a fairly big guy?" Daryl asked.

"Yeah, over six feet for sure."

"And he has some stitches on his face?"

"Yeah, he did," Jed said. "How did you know that, sir?"

"Did he say where he was living?" Daryl asked.

"No, and I didn't ask," Jed said. "I have to say he's been quite appreciative of getting the work. He's even agreed to work a shift and a half."

"You mean he's working tonight?" Daryl asked. "As part of the cleanup crew?"

"Yup," Jed said. "We had someone call in sick just this morning."

"That's good," Daryl said. "That's very good. Good job, Jed."

"Thank you, sir," Jed said. "Is there something you'd like me to do or to say to Mr. Ramerez?"

"No, nothing at all," Daryl said. "In fact, keep this conversation of ours confidential. Can I count on you for that?"

"Absolutely, sir," Jed said.

Jed recoiled when he heard the line disconnected. It had been so precipitous. He looked quizzically at the phone for a second before hanging up.

Not wanting to be caught in the head-boning room where there was nothing to sweep, Kim had retreated back to the main kill floor. He still had no clue as to what Marsha was talking about when she mentioned that last head now that he'd followed the trail through most of the plant. The only unknown was what happened to the heads after disappearing down the black hole.

Kim went back to the evisceration area and reswept parts of the floor he'd already cleaned several times. The frustrating part was that in certain areas, it only took about fifteen minutes to look like he'd never been there.

Despite his earplugs, he suddenly could hear a sustained raucous buzz. He straightened up from his work and looked around. He immediately saw that the cattle had been halted in the chute. No more animals were being killed. The pitiable cows close to the executioner had been given a momentary reprieve. The executioner had put aside his tool and was in the process of coiling the high-pressure hose.

The animals that had already been killed advanced through the line until the final one had been eviscerated. At that point the line was stopped, and the tremendous din was replaced by an eerie silence.

It took Kim a few moments to realize that part of the silence was due to his earplugs. When he took them out, he heard the noises of the power tools being stowed and a buzz of animated conversation. Workers started swinging down from the catwalks, while others used stairs and ladders.

Kim stopped one of the workers and asked him what was going on.

"No speak English," the worker said, before hurrying off.

Kim stopped another. "Do you speak English?" he asked.

"A little," the man said.

"What's happening?" Kim asked.

"Lunch break," the man said, before hurrying after the first.

Kim watched as the hundred or so workers streamed from the catwalks and lined up to pass through the fire door. They were en route to the lunchroom and the locker area. An equal number of employees came from the main boning room via the head-boning room. Despite the pall of death and the stench, the camaraderie was evident. There was much laughter and friendly jostling.

"How anyone could eat is beyond me," Kim said into his microphone.

Kim saw the man who'd attacked him, along with his partner. They walked by without a glance to join the ever-lengthening queue. Kim felt even more confident about his disguise.

Kim stopped one of the eviscerators whose damp white coat had become variegated with shades of pink and red. He asked the man how to get to the basement. In return, Kim got a look that suggested he was crazy.

"Do you speak English?" Kim inquired.

"Sure, man, I speak English," the eviscerator said.

"I want to go below," Kim said. "How do I get there?"

"You don't want to go downstairs," the man said. "But if you did, you'd go through that door." He pointed to an unmarked door with an automatic closer mounted on its upper edge.

Kim continued sweeping until the last worker had passed through the fire door. After all the noise and chaotic activity when the line was in operation, it was strange for Kim to be alone with forty or fifty suspended, steaming carcasses. For the first time since Kim had arrived, the floor around the evisceration area was free of gore.

Putting his broom aside, Kim walked over to the unmarked door the man had pointed out. After a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being observed, he pulled the door open and stepped inside. The door closed quickly behind him.

The first thing that Kim was aware of was the smell. It was ten times worse than the kill floor, which had sickened him so quickly earlier. What made it so awful was the added stench of putrefaction. Although he retched a few times, he didn't vomit. He assumed it was because his stomach was empty.

Kim was standing on a landing above a flight of cement stairs that descended into utter blackness. Over his head was a single, bare lightbulb. On the wall behind him was a fire extinguisher and an industrial-sized, emergency flashlight.

Kim yanked the flashlight from its brackets and turned it on. He aimed the concentrated beam down the stairs, revealing a long flight descending to a deep cellar. The walls were stained with large, Rorschach-like blotches in brown. The distant floor looked smooth and black like a pool of crude oil.

Kim got one hand free from his rubber glove and located his earphone. After removing his earplug, he slipped it into his ear.

"Can you hear me, Trace?" Kim said. "If you can, say something. I just put in my earphone."

"It's about time!" Tracy said irritably. Her voice was loud and clear despite Kim's being surrounded by reinforced concrete walls. "I want you to come out here immediately."

"Whoa," Kim said. "What are you all wound up about?"

"You're in this slaughterhouse with someone who has tried to kill you twice," Tracy said. "This is ridiculous. I want you to give up this madness."

"I've got a little more investigating to do," Kim said. "Besides, the knife guy hasn't recognized me, so calm down!"

"Where are you?" Tracy asked. "Why haven't you put your earphone in until now? It's been driving me crazy not to be able to talk to you."

Kim started down the stairs. "I can't risk the earphones except when I'm alone," he said. "As to where I am at the moment, I'm heading down into the basement, which I have to admit is no picnic. It's like descending into the lower circles of hell. There's no way I could describe the smell."

"I don't think you should go into the basement," Tracy said. "I like being able to talk with you, but it's safer if you stay in a group. Besides, you're probably not supposed to be in there, and if someone catches you, there'll surely be trouble."

"Everybody's at lunch," Kim said. "Being caught down here is not my worry."

Breathing through his mouth to help avoid the stench, Kim reached the bottom of the stairs. He shined the flashlight beam around the vast, pitch-black space. It was a warren of vats and Dumpster-like containers. Each was connected with a duct that led upward through the ceiling to catch the blood, unwanted guts, and discarded bones and skulls.

"This is where they store everything until it gets trucked to the rendering plant," Kim said. "Obviously from the odor it's all in various stages of decay. There's no refrigeration down here. Although it's hard to imagine as bad as it smells now, it must be worse in the summertime."

"It sounds disgusting," Tracy said. "It's hard to believe that waste like that would have any use."

"The renderer turns it into fertilizer," Kim said. "And, disgustingly enough, cattle feed. The industry has forced our unwitting cattle into becoming cannibals."

"Uh-oh!" Kim mumbled as he felt a shiver descend his spine.

"What's the matter?" Tracy demanded anxiously.

"I just heard a noise," Kim said.

"Then get yourself out of there," Tracy said anxiously.

Kim shined his light in the direction of the noise. In a fashion strikingly similar to the episode in his own basement the night before, a number of pairs of diabolically ruby eyes stared back at him. A second later the eyes disappeared, and Kim caught sight of a group of animals the size of house cats scampering off. Unlike the night before, they weren't mice.

"It's okay," Kim said. "It's just some monster rats."

"Oh, that's all," Tracy said sarcastically. "Just a group of friendly monster rats."

Kim stepped out onto the cellar floor and discovered that not only did the floor surface look like crude oil, it had approximately the same consistency. His boots made a rude sucking sound each time he picked up his feet.

"This is certainly a nightmare image of post-industrialization," Kim commented.

"Cut the philosophizing," Tracy snapped. "Come on, Kim! Get out of there! What on earth are you doing down there anyway?"

"I want to find the chute for the heads," Kim said.

He slogged forward among the tanks and vats, trying to estimate where the head-boning room lay above. He came to a concrete block wall which he assumed was contiguous with the wall above. That meant the chute he was looking for would be on the other side.

Kim shined his light along the wall until he located an opening. Walking down to it, he ducked through. He shined his light around this second space. It was smaller than the first and cleaner. It also had what he'd guessed. To his immediate right was a chute connected to a particularly large Dumpster.

"This looks promising," Kim said. "I think I found it. It's about the size of a construction Dumpster." With the flashlight beam, he followed the chute up to where it penetrated the ceiling. He estimated the diameter of the chute to be about the same as the aperture he'd remembered above.

"Okay, wonderful!" Tracy said. "Now come out of there."

"In a second," Kim said. "I'm going to see if I can look inside."

Kim stepped over to the rusted, filthy Dumpster-like container. In this area of the basement there was no sucking sound as he walked. Around the side of the container near where the chute was attached was a small metal platform accessible by four steps. Kim climbed up. He could now see the top of the Dumpster. Right in front of him was a hatch secured with a metal latch. He moved the latch to the side but then couldn't open the hatch. At least not with one hand.

Putting the flashlight between his knees, he got both hands under the edge of the hatch. With a squeak, it lifted. Holding it with his left hand, he raised the flashlight with his right and shined it inside. It was not a pretty image.

The container was almost brimming with rotting, skinned cattle heads. In contrast with the newly slaughtered, bloody heads upstairs, here the eyes were shriveled and the attached shards of gristle were black. In many of the heads the gaping hole made by the air gun was plainly visible.

Disgusted by the view as well as the smell, Kim was about to lower the hatch into place, when an involuntary cry of horror escaped from his lips. The flashlight beam had found a particularly gruesome sight. Partially buried by a subsequent avalanche of fresh cow skulls was Marsha's severed head!

The shock caused Kim to let go of the heavy hatch, and it slammed shut with a deafening crash in the confined space. The booming sound echoed repeatedly off distant, unseen concrete walls.

"What happened?" Tracy demanded frantically.

Before Kim could respond. a horrid screeching noise tortured both Kim's and Tracy's ears. The crashing hatch had activated some automatic machinery.

Kim snatched up the light and shone it in the direction of the dreadful noise. He saw a rusted steel overhead door rising.

Kim could hear Tracy repeatedly demand to be told what was going on. hut he couldn't answer her, he truly didn't know. Behind the rising door was a filthy, forklift vehicle that suddenly came to life like a horrible, futuristic mechanical creature. Red lights on its front began to flash, washing the room with the color of blood.

As soon as the overhead door reached its apogee, the driverless vehicle began to give off high-pitched, intermittent beeps as it rolled forward in a thunderous, jerky fashion. Terrified of the imminent collision, Kim leapt from the platform and pressed himself against the wall.

The forklift crashed into the Dumpster, causing a boom even louder than the sound of the slamming hatch. The Dumpster shuddered and then raised. As the forklift backed up, the chute connecting the container with the head-boning room above became detached. When the Dumpster was completely free from the space, a second, empty Dumpster waiting next to the first slid into place with another thunderous crash. The chute automatically snapped into place.

The forklift stopped, pivoted, then rumbled off into the inky blackness.

"Kim, I don't know if you can hear me or not," Tracy shouted, "but I'm coming in!"

"No!" Kim cried into his microphone. "I'm okay. I inadvertently activated some automatic removal equipment. I'm coming out, so don't come in."

"You mean you're coming out here to the car?" Tracy asked hopefully.

"Yes," Kim said. "I need a breather."

It wasn't that Derek Leutmann didn't trust Shanahan O'Brian, but he knew there was more to this aggravating story than he'd been told. Besides, Derek had a set methodology in his work. Killing people was a business in which one could not be too careful. Rather than going directly to Kim's former wife's house as Shanahan had initially suggested, Derek went to Kim's. He wanted to test the reliability of Shanahan's information as well as learn more about his supposed quarry.

Derek drove into Balmoral Estates and directly to Kim's property without hesitation. He knew from experience that such behavior was far less suspicious than cruising the neighborhood.

Derek parked in the driveway in front of the garage. He opened his metal Zero Halliburton valise that was resting on the passenger seat next to him. Reaching in, he pulled out a nine-millimeter automatic from its custom-cut pocket in Styrofoam. With trained ease, he attached a silencer and then slipped the gun into the right pocket of his camel-hair coat. The pocket had been altered to accommodate the long weapon.

Derek got out of the car, holding his ostrich briefcase. He took a quick peek into the garage. It was empty. Then he strode up the front walk, appearing for all the world like a successful businessman or an elegant insurance adjuster. He rang the bell. Only then did he glance around at the neighborhood. From Kim's porch he could see only two other houses. Both appeared unoccupied at that moment.

He rang the bell again. When no one answered, he tried the door. He was surprised but pleased to find it unlocked. Had it not been, it wouldn't have made much difference. Derek had the tools and the expertise to handle most locks.

Without a moment's hesitation, Derek entered the house and closed the door behind himself. He stood for a moment, listening. There wasn't a sound.

Still carrying his briefcase, Derek made a rapid, silent tour of the first floor. He noticed some dirty dishes in the sink. They looked as though they'd been sitting awhile.

Climbing up to the second floor, Derek saw the splintered door leading into the master bath. He took in the broken console table. Stepping into the bath, he felt the towels. It was clear that none had been recently used. So at least that much of Shanahan's information seemed accurate.

In the walk-in closet in the master bedroom he glanced down at all the clothes littering the floor. He couldn't help but wonder exactly what had gone on during the botched hit that Shanahan had mentioned.

Back down on the first floor Derek entered the study and sat down at Kim's desk. Without removing his gloves, he began to go through some of the correspondence to see what he could learn about the man he had been brought all the way from Chicago to kill.

Tracy had backed up so that she could see along the front of Higgins and Hancock. She'd thought about driving back to the entrance but was afraid to do so because she and Kim had not discussed where she'd be when he came out. She was afraid Kim might come out one of the other doors and then be searching for her.

But she soon saw him emerge from the front door and jog in her direction. He was dressed in a white coat and had a yellow plastic construction helmet on his head. He ran up to the car, and after glancing back over his shoulder, he climbed into the backseat.

"You're paler than I've ever seen you," Tracy said. She was turned around in her seat as much as the steering wheel would allow. "But I guess the blond hair emphasizes it."

"I've just seen one of the worst things in my life."

"What?" Tracy asked with alarm.

"Marsha Baldwin's head!" Kim said. "It's probably all that's left of her, along with a few bones. As disgusting as it sounds, I'm afraid most of her must have gone for hamburger."

"Oh, God!" Tracy murmured. Her eyes locked with Kim's. She saw tears appear, and it made her respond in kind.

"First Becky and now this," Kim managed. "I feel so damn responsible. Because of me, one tragedy had to lead to another."

"I can understand how you feel," Tracy offered. "But as I've already said, Marsha was doing what she wanted to do, what she thought was right. It doesn't justify her death, but it's not your fault."

Tracy reached out toward Kim. He took her hand and squeezed it. For a few moments a wordless but powerful communication passed between the two people.

Tracy sighed, shook her head in despair, then took her hand back. She twisted around in the seat and started the engine. Before Kim had gotten to the car, she'd already hauled in the antenna.

"One thing is for sure," Tracy said, while putting the car into gear. "We're getting out of here."

"No!" Kim said. He reached forward and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "I've got to go back. I'm going to see this to the end. Now it's for both Becky and Marsha."

"Kim, this now involves proven murder!" Tracy said evenly. "It's time for the police."

"It's only one murder," Kim said. "And one murder pales against the murder of up to five hundred kids a year that this industry is guilty of in the name of increased profit."

"Responsibility for the children might be hard to prove in court," Tracy said. "But finding the head of a person makes a startlingly clear case."

"I found the head, but I don't know where it is now," Kim said. "It was in with the cow heads, but when I slammed the cover, I activated the system to take them away. It's on its way to the renderer. So there'd be no corpus delicti even if we wanted to blow the whistle on Marsha's death. Obviously my word at the moment means nothing to the police."

"They can start their own investigation," Tracy said. "Maybe they'll find other bones."

"Even if they did," Kim said, "the issue here is not to prosecute one low-level thug like the guy who tried to kill me. It's the industry I want to do something about."

Tracy sighed again and turned off the engine. "But why go back now? You've accomplished what you set out to do. You've learned that it will be easy to document how the meat gets contaminated." Tracy tapped the tape recorder. "This tape alone might be almost as good as a video. I can tell you it's powerful stuff the way you described what's going on in there. I'm sure Kelly Anderson will jump on it."

"I want to go back mainly because I'll be working the three-to-eleven cleanup as you heard," Kim said. "I'm hoping that sometime during that shift I can get into the record room. Marsha found what she called a 'deficiency report' that involved the head of a sick animal. She said she was putting it back into the file, and I heard her do it. I want to find that paper."

Tracy shook her head in frustration. "You're taking too much of a risk," she said. "If Kelly Anderson gets on the case, let her find the deficiency report."

"I don't think I'm taking any risk at this point," Kim said. "The guy with the knife looked me right in the eye in the men's room. If I were to be recognized, that would have been the moment. In fact, I don't even want this gun anymore."

Kim struggled to get the pistol out of his pants pocket. He handed it to Tracy.

"At least keep the gun," Tracy said.

Kim shook his head. "No, I don't want it."

"Please," Tracy said.

" Tracy, I'm carrying enough stuff with these battery packs," Kim said. "And I think having it is more of a risk than a comfort."

Reluctantly Tracy took the gun and put it down on the car floor. "I can't talk you out of going back in there?"

"I want to follow this through," Kim said. "It's the least I can do."

"I hope you understand that sitting here while you are taking all this risk is driving me crazy."

"I can understand," Kim said. "Why don't you go home and just come back for me at eleven?"

"Oh, no!" Tracy said. "That would be worse. At least this way I can hear what's going on."

"Okay," Kim said. "It's your call. But I'd better get back. The lunch break is almost over.

Kim got his legs out of the car before leaning back inside. "Can I ask you to do something sometime this afternoon?" he said.

"Of course," Tracy said. "As long as I don't have to leave the car."

"Would you call Sherring Labs with your cell phone?" Kim asked. "Ask about the results on the meat I dropped off. They should be ready about now."

"Fine," Tracy said.

Kim gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Thanks," he said before climbing out. He closed the door, waved, and walked away.

Derek Leutmann slowed down as he neared Tracy 's house. The numbers on some of the neighboring houses were not very apparent, and he did not want to drive by. As the house came into view he saw the Mercedes parked at the head of the drive. Not wishing to block it, Derek did a U-turn and parked across the street.

Taking out the information sheet given to him by Shanahan, Derek checked the license number of the Mercedes. His suspicions were substantiated. It was the doctor's car.

After going through the same preparations as he'd done outside of Kim's house, Derek emerged into the light rain that had begun to fall. He snapped open a small, collapsible umbrella before taking out his briefcase. With the briefcase in one hand and the umbrella in the other, he crossed the street and glanced into the car. He was surprised to see it there, thinking that it should have been with Kim at his office. Of course that suggested Kim was not at his office.

Derek knew a lot more about Kim now than he did earlier. He knew that he was a cardiac surgeon who was extremely well regarded. He knew that he was divorced and was paying considerable alimony and child support. What he didn't know was why O'Brian and his boss in the cattle business wanted the man dead.

Derek had asked Shanahan that very question and had gotten a vague answer. Derek never wanted to know the details of any of his client's dealings with a potential mark, but he wanted to know the generalities. It was another way of reducing risk not only during the hit but after. He'd tried to press Shanahan but to no avail. All he was told was that it involved business. The curious thing was that Derek had found no connection between the doctor and cattle or beef, and Derek had found a lot of information in the doctor's desk.

Most of Derek's work stemmed from problems involving money in some form or fashion with competition, gambling, divorce, and unpaid loans leading the list. Most of the people were scum whether they were clients or marks, and Derek liked it that way. This case seemed significantly different, and a sense of curiosity was added to Derek's other strong emotions. What Derek disliked the most was to be underestimated and taken advantage of. He'd not gotten into the business in the usual way via mob association. He'd been a mercenary in Africa back in the days when there had been good guys and bad guys, before any of the national armies had had any training.

Derek climbed the steps to the porch and rang the bell. With Kim's car in the drive he expected an answer, but there wasn't any. Derek rang again. He turned and surveyed the neighborhood. It was quite different from Kim's. From where Derek was standing he had a good view of five houses and a reasonable view of four more. But there was not a lot of activity. The only person he saw was a woman pushing a stroller, and she was heading away from him.

Despite a painstaking search of Kim's correspondence and records, Derek had failed to come up with any evidence suggesting the doctor had a gambling problem, so Derek reasoned that gambling couldn't have been the stimulus for Shanahan's offering him the contract. Divorce was out because the former wife had gotten a good settlement. Besides, she and the doctor were apparently getting along fine. Otherwise she certainly wouldn't have bailed him out of jail as Shanahan reported. A loan seemed equally unlikely since there had been no indication in Kim's records that he needed money, and even if he had, why would he borrow from a cattleman? That left competition. But that was the most unlikely of all. Kim didn't even own any stock in the beef industry except for a few shares in a fast-food hamburger chain. It was indeed a mystery.

Derek turned around and examined the door. It was secured with a standard throw-bolt and lock, a mere inconvenience given his experience. The question was whether there was an alarm.

Putting down his briefcase, Derek cupped his hands to peer through the sidelight. He saw no keypad. Taking out his locksmith tools from his left pocket, he made quick work of the locks. The door opened and swung inside. He looked along the inside of the jamb. There were no contacts. Stepping within the small foyer, he looked for a keypad on the portion of the walls that he'd not been able to see from the porch. There was none. Then he glanced up around the cornice for motion detectors. He relaxed. There was no alarm.

Derek retrieved his briefcase before closing the door. He made a rapid tour of the first floor before climbing to the second. In the guestroom he found a small overnight bag with a shaving kit and clothes he guessed belonged to Kim. In the only bathroom he found several sets of damp towels.

Derek went back downstairs and made himself comfortable in the living room. With Kim's car in the driveway and his things in the guestroom, Derek knew that the doctor would be back. It was only a matter of waiting.

Carlos butted the unsuspecting Adolpho out of the way and got his time card into the time clock before his partner. It was an ongoing joke they'd been playing for months.

"I'll get you next time," Adolpho joked. He made a point of speaking in English because Carlos had told him he wanted to learn to speak better.

"Yeah, over my dead body," Carlos replied. It was one of his favorite new phrases.

It had been Adolpho who'd gotten Carlos to come to Higgins and Hancock and then helped him bring his family. Adolpho and Carlos had known each other since they were kids back in Mexico. Adolpho had come to the United States several years before Carlos.

The two friends emerged into the afternoon rain arm-in-arm. Along with an army of other workers, they headed for their vehicles.

"You want to meet tonight at El Toro?" Adolpho questioned.

"Sure," Carlos said.

"Bring a lot of pesos," Adolpho advised. "You're going to lose a lot of money." He mimed using a cue stick to shoot pool.

"It will never happen," Carlos said, slapping his partner on the back. It was at that moment that Carlos saw the black Cherokee with its darkly tinted windows. The vehicle was next to his own and fumes were rising languidly from its exhaust pipe.

Carlos gave Adolpho a final pat on the back. He watched his partner get into his truck before Carlos headed for his own. Carlos took his time and waved to Adolpho as he drove by. At that point, he detoured toward the Cherokee and approached the driver's-side window.

The window went down. Shanahan smiled. "I got some good news," he said. "Come around and get in."

Carlos did as he was told. He shut the door behind him.

"You're going to have another chance to do the doctor," Shanahan said.

"I'm very happy," Carlos said. He smiled too. "When?"

"Tonight," Shanahan said. "The doctor is working here."

"I told you," Carlos said. "I knew it was him."

"There's been a bit of luck," Shanahan said with a nod. "And best of all he's working the cleanup tonight. It will be arranged that he will clean the men's room next to the record room. Do you know where that is? I don't. I've never been in Higgins and Hancock."

"Yeah, I know where it is," Carlos said. "We're not supposed to use that room."

"Well, tonight you will," Shanahan said with a wry smile. "It will be late, probably after ten. Make sure you're there."

"I'll be there," Carlos promised.

"It should be easy," Shanahan said. "You'll be dealing with an unarmed, unsuspecting person in a small room. Just make sure the body disappears like Marsha Baldwin."

"I do what you say," Carlos said.

"Just don't screw up this time," Shanahan said. "I've gone out on a limb for you, and I don't want to be embarrassed again."

"No problem!" Carlos said with emphasis. "Tonight I keeelll him!"