Sheer Gall (28 page)

When Walter Brunt called, I told him about my appointment at seven that night. He told me he'd meet me at my office at six sharp to go over security arrangements.

Chapter Thirty-one

There was a full moon suspended low over the slaughterhouse as I turned into the parking lot. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Right behind me were the wide headlights of Walter Brunt's Oldsmobile 88. The asphalt lot was large enough to accommodate more than one hundred cars. It was about half full tonight, with cars scattered throughout. I pulled into an empty space in the fourth row.

I checked my watch before I turned off the engine. Five minutes to seven. Right on time.

I had a clear view of the front of the building, which housed the administrative offices. The lights were all on. From the outside, it looked like an entirely ordinary two-story brick office building dating from the 1930s. There was nothing about the building facade or the administrative office area, where I had met Brady Kane several days ago, to hint at the methodical carnage that took place in the back end of the building five days a week. Nothing architecturally, that is. Even though my windows were up, the odor made me gag.

As I got out of the car, I strained my ears, but I couldn't hear the animals. There were holding pens behind the building where this week's quota waited. Benny and I had seen those pens from the observation deck in the Arch. To say that they were animals made it no less a death camp and made me no less uneasy about the red meat I occasionally consumed.

Walter Brunt had parked two rows back. I waited for him and then we walked together toward the building. To the left of the entrance in the first row was a shiny black Dodge Ram pickup with a RUSH IS RIGHT bumper sticker. A little sign at the head of that space read RESERVED FOR PLANT MANAGER.

I patted the beeper hooked to the waist of my skirt. There was a spare one in my purse, just in case. Walter had trained me in its use before we drove over. Depending upon the button I pushed, the pager became a walkie-talkie (with Walter on the other end), a homing device, or an emergency alarm.

One of the accounting drones—a slight, middle-aged man with a crew cut and wire-rim glasses—met us in the tiny reception area. He said that Mr. Kane would be detained back in the bleeding facility for at least another thirty minutes. He would be pleased to escort me back there, however, if I didn't want to wait. I glanced at Walter and told the man that would be fine. Walter and I had already agreed that while I talked to Brady Kane he would try to locate April Lindner, the woman in accounting who had filed the sexual harassment charge.

I followed the accountant down the hall to a security checkpoint just outside a large set of double doors. The accountant turned me over to a uniformed guard, who issued me a hard hat with the DBP logo, a white smock, protective goggles, and yellow rubber boots. Once I had on my gear, the guard led me through the double doors, down a short hall, and through another set of double doors that opened into a large area the size of a warehouse.

The stench was overwhelming. For a brief moment, the scene reminded me of the Chrysler assembly line we had visited on a field trip in elementary school. But only for a brief moment. Here, the swaying hulks suspended from cables and moving slowly down the line were made not of steel but flesh.

I averted my eyes, determined not to get sick, as I followed the guard down a yellow path that was painted on the cement floor of the slaughterhouse. The path curved around the circumference of the work area until we stopped by a glassed-in area. The guard told me to wait there a moment.

I peered through the glass. It looked like an army field hospital. There were about a dozen operating tables, and technicians were moving around in green hospital gowns and matching booties. I looked closer. The “patients” on the tables were dead unborn calves. Each fetus had a pair of rubber IV tubes leading from its body into glass jars that were suspended from metal stands on rollers, just as in a hospital, except that here the bottles were at a lower elevation than the “patients” and they were gradually filling with bright red blood.

I turned away, only to find myself facing something just as bad. Across the way was a long line of headless, legless cattle carcasses hanging from meat hooks. One of the workers turned from his carcass and shouted something. He was wearing a blood-smeared rubber smock and holding a large carving knife. From a distance, another man acknowledged the shout and started approaching, pushing a low metal gurney. As I watched, the first man turned back to his carcass and stabbed the knife high into the flesh. In one downward motion, he sliced from neck to crotch and then backed away. As the carcass swayed from side to side, the long gash slowly bulged and spread open, and then the intestines and organs came sliding out with a wet sucking noise.

The guy with the gurney arrived just as the guts flopped onto the concrete. The two men reached down and lifted up a large bloody sac that I suddenly realized contained a fetus. I turned my head as they heaved it onto the gurney.

The guard approached and pointed to an observation deck above the carnage. “Mr. Kane will see you now.”

I looked to where he was pointing. Brady Kane was standing up there—an immense, scowling golem. His bald head resembled the business end of a battering ram. I followed the guard up the stairs and onto the platform. Kane glanced over at me and then back down at the activities on the floor of the slaughterhouse.

I waited for him to say something. He didn't.

“I appreciate your making time to meet with me,” I said.

He continued to stare silently at the scene below. “I understand you have some information for me,” I said.

He jerked his thumb toward a small table behind him. On it was a manila folder. I picked it up. Inside was a one-page computer printout entitled BY-PRODUCTS ACTIVITY—MONTH TO DATE. I looked down the page. There were summary inventory counts and sales revenues for a variety of beef by-products, including pancreas glands, fetal blood, beef warts, and a category labeled “miscellaneous (incl. gallstones).”

“Don't you have a separate tally for gallstones?” I asked.

He turned his massive head toward me, his eyes cold. “Used to.”

“When did you stop?”

“Can't remember.”

“More than a year ago?”

“Maybe,” he said, his face impassive.

“Who do you sell gallstones to?”

“Varies.” He looked down at the floor operations. “Same with the rest of the by-products.”

I held the one-page printout. “This is only November.”

He nodded.

“What about the records for the prior months?”

He shook his head. “Gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kept the hard copy off-site in a warehouse in Sauget. They were destroyed three months ago. Water pipe burst on 'em.”

“What about the computer records?”

“Virus.” He shook his head. “Zapped them all a couple weeks back. Damn shame.”

“All plant records?”

“Just by-products.”

“How convenient,” I said sarcastically.

“Filed a report on it.” He turned toward me, his eyes impassive. “They sent one of their tech boys in from Kansas City. He ran one of them antivirus programs. Filed a report, too. They got a copy up in Chicago.” He gave me a chilly smile. “Ought to be safe from here on out.”

***

I looked east in the night sky. Off in the distance I saw the blinking red light atop the Arch. As I gazed at the St. Louis skyline, I heard the sound of male voices. I turned to see two middle-aged men coming through the front door of the Douglas Beef plant. One was skinny and the other stout. They separated at the end of the front path and headed for their cars.

I checked my watch. Eight thirty-five. According to Walter Brunt, the accounting staff got off at eight-thirty tonight.

Next out the door was a youngish, chubby woman with platinum hair worn in an old-fashioned beehive. She was carrying a purse in one hand and a canvas lunch sack in the other. Another man, then another woman, and then April Lindner. Walter Brunt had pointed her out to me as we were leaving the building forty-five minutes ago. She had long brown hair and was wearing a St. Louis Blues jacket over a red miniskirt that spotlighted a pair of ample thighs (
polkas
, as my father used to call them).

I watched her walk rapidly to a white Camaro two rows over. As she got in her car, I started my engine. I pulled out of the parking lot behind her and stayed two cars back in traffic until she turned onto the eastbound entrance ramp to 1–64.

Now I had to make my decision. When Brady Kane ended our meeting by announcing that he was going downstairs to drain some fetuses, I had hung around the Douglas Beef parking lot as I tried to decide whether to approach April tonight or set up something for tomorrow.

Tonight or tomorrow?

Tonight.

I followed her up the ramp and kept another car between us until she took one of the Belleville exits. Coming off the ramp, I hung back far enough to blend in with the other headlights in her rearview mirror. She pulled into a filling station. I drove past and turned into a McDonald's parking lot. I turned to watch as she pumped gas, cleaned her windshield, and went inside to pay. She came back out with a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one up, she got back in her car and drove out. I followed her down the road. Just past the next intersection she pulled into a 7-Eleven lot, parked the car, and went inside. I turned into a motel parking lot across the street, backed the car around so that I was facing out again, and waited, the engine idling. After about five minutes, I turned on the radio. It was tuned to an oldies station, which at the moment was playing “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. Sam started howling as she came walking out of the store carrying a grocery bag and a six-pack of Budweiser. I had to smile at the timing.

I followed her out of the 7-Eleven lot. Another mile or so down the road she turned off the main road into a residential area. I did, too, first clicking off my headlights. We were driving through what seemed to be a working-class neighborhood of brick bungalows and small ranch houses. She took a right and then a left and then another right. I hung back, watching from the intersection as her brake lights came on and she turned into the driveway of the seventh bungalow on the left, stopping in front of the garage.

I drove on past, trying to decide what to do. This was definitely the unscripted part. I got to the end of the block and pulled over to the side. The house had been dark when she arrived, which probably meant she was alone. I checked my watch. It was nine-twenty. Not too late. I turned right at the end of the block, and kept turning right until I was back where I started.

I drove slowly toward her house. There was now a big Dodge Ram pickup parked directly behind her car. As I drove slowly past the house, I noted the RUSH IS RIGHT sticker on the rear bumper of the pickup. I kept on going.

***

I got home at ten-thirty. There was a police car parked in front. Walter Brunt had certainly handled that part of his assignment well: there were squad cars cruising by my house throughout the night. I put my car in the garage and came back out front to see whether the cops wanted something to drink. Behind the wheel was a young white female officer. Her partner was an older, heavyset black man. They thanked me politely but said no thanks. Each of them had a takeout cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee.

“There'll be a squad car parked out here all night, ma'am,” the female officer told me.

I gave her a curious look. “Parked?”

She nodded. “That'll be the routine for the next few nights.”

“How come?”

“Just a precaution. Junior Dice made bail about an hour ago. He's back on the streets.”

There was a message on my answering machine from Jonathan Wolf with the same information. He ended by asking me to call him when I got in. I did.

“The risk is low,” he said. “Junior may be many things, but he's not stupid. Nevertheless, a little extra police attention for the next few nights seems justified.”

“Thanks, Jonathan.”

“Sure,” he said brusquely. “Tell me about your meeting with Brady Kane.”

I filled him in, including the part about following April Lindner.

“Rachel, Rachel.” He sounded exasperated.

“I drove right past her house and went home.”

Ozzie came padding over and sat in front of me.

After a moment, Jonathan asked, “How do you feel?”

I scratched Ozzie behind the ear. “I'm fine.”

“You're sure?”

I leaned over and kissed Ozzie on top of his head. “I'm sure.”

Jonathan was silent.

I laughed. “Don't worry so much. I'm delighted to have you tough guys in charge. I feel very safe.”

“That's good. But if your feelings change, well…” He hesitated.

“Well what?”

“Well, if you have any anxiety about being there alone, I've told you we have an extra bedroom here. The bed is made. You'd have your own bathroom.”

“Thanks. I'm okay so far.” I ruffled Ozzie's coat. “I've got a squad car outside and a big, ferocious dog in here with me. Right, Oz?” He wagged his tail in response.

Nevertheless, when I took my shower that night I had Ozzie stay in the bathroom with me, and before I went to bed I double-checked the electronic security system and I peered out the front window to make sure there was a squad car parked at the curb. There was.

***

The only place not secured that night was my unconscious, and it served up a doozy. In the dream I was standing on the foul, slippery concrete floor of the slaughterhouse dressed in a white wedding gown and veil. The gown and the veil were splattered with red. Next to me was Neville McBride, dressed in a business suit that was smeared with blood and offal. Inching toward us on meat hooks was an endless line of headless carcasses—a gruesome, swaying disassembly line. As each carcass stopped in front of McBride, he would slit it open from neck to groin with his carving knife. And all the while, as slimy ropes of intestines coiled at our feet and large gray organs flopped onto the concrete and an occasional spray of warm blood made us shield our eyes, McBride droned on and on about the tax advantages of certain limited partnership investments. As he lectured on the use of passive losses to offset gains, an especially large carcass stopped in front of him.