Toxin (28 page)

“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 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.

 

T
he 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.

 

K
im 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.

 

C
arlos 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.

 

K
im 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.