Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

“We will take all that into consideration, Agent Pendergast.”

But Pendergast didn’t seem to hear. He was staring intently at the body. The room fell into silence. Hazen was aware that everybody, including himself, seemed to be waiting to hear what Pendergast would say next.

Pendergast looked up from the table. “In addition, I note a second substance on the skin,” he said, stepping back with an air of finality. “I would suggest testing for the presence of C 12H 22O 11.”

“You can’t possibly mean—?” The M.E. stopped abruptly.

Hazen glanced up. The M.E. looked astonished. But what in hell’s name could be more outrageous than what they’d already discovered?

“I’m afraid so,” said Pendergast. “The body, it appears, has been buttered and sugared.”

Twenty-Four

T he Gro-Bain turkey plant squatted low and long in the great sea of corn that lapped right up to its corrugated metal walls. It was the same color as the corn, too: a dirty tan that rendered it almost invisible from a distance. Corrie Swanson pulled her Gremlin into the big parking lot. It was crowded with hot glittering cars and she had to park some distance from the entrance. Pendergast opened the passenger door, unfolded his black-clad legs, and emerged in a single, lithe movement. He looked around.

“Have you ever been inside, Miss Swanson?”

“Never. I’ve heard enough stories.”

“I confess I am curious to see how they do it.”

“How they do what?”

“How they turn a hundred thousand pounds of live turkey into frozen Butterballs each day.”

Corrie gave a snort. “I’m not.”

A large semi-trailer approached the plant’s loading dock, its air brakes squealing and squeaking as it backed up a huge load of stacked turkey cages. Beside the loading dock was an enormous bay, large black strips of rubber hanging over its mouth, like the ones Corrie had seen at the Deeper Car Wash. As she watched, the semi-trailer backed its load into the bay, the turkey cages disappearing five at a time between the rubber strips until only the cab of the semi remained in view. There was another chuff of brakes and the vehicle lurched to a halt.

“Agent Pendergast, can I ask what we’re doing here?”

“You certainly may. We are here to find out more about William LaRue Stott.”

“What’s the connection?”

Pendergast turned to her. “Miss Swanson, in my line of work I have discovered that everything is connected. I must come to know this town, and everything and everyone in it. Medicine Creek isn’t just a character in the drama, it is the protagonist. And here in front of us we have a business—a slaughterhouse, to be precise—on which the economic lifeline of the town depends. The place of employment of our second victim. This plant is the beating heart of Medicine Creek, if you will pardon the metaphor.”

“Maybe I should wait in the car. Dead turkeys are not my gig.”

“I should have thought this fit in well with your weltanschauung. ” Pendergast gestured at the Gothic appurtenances that littered the car. “And they are not dead when they arrive. In any case, you are free to do as you wish.” And he set off cheerfully across the parking lot.

Corrie watched him for a moment. Then she yanked open the door of the Gremlin and hurried to catch up.

Pendergast was approaching a windowless steel door bearing a sign that readEMPLOYEE ENTRANCE—PLEASE USE KEY . He tried the handle but it was locked. Corrie watched as he began to reach into an inside pocket of his jacket. Then he withdrew his hand again, as if reconsidering.

“Follow me,” he said.

They walked along the concrete apron to a set of cement stairs. The stairs led directly onto the loading dock where the semi-trailer stood, its load of turkeys now hidden within the plant itself. Pendergast ducked between the wide rubber strips at the edge of the bay and disappeared. Corrie swallowed, drew in her breath, and followed.

Beyond, the loading dock opened into a large receiving room. A man wearing thick rubber gloves was yanking the turkey cages off the bed of the semi and popping them open. A conveyor belt ran overhead, steel hooks dangling from its underside. Three other men were grabbing turkeys out of the open cages and hanging them, feet first, from the steel hooks. Already so filthy from their ride as to be barely recognizable as birds, the turkeys squawked and struggled feebly as they hung head downward, pecking at empty air, shitting themselves in terror. The belt went clanking off, very slowly, disappearing through a narrow opening in the far wall of the loading dock. The place was air-conditioned down to polar levels and it stank. God, it stank.

“Sir?” A teenage security guard came hustling over. “Sir?”

Pendergast turned toward him. “FBI,” he said over the noise, flapping his identification wallet in the youth’s face.

“Right, sir. But no one is allowed in the plant without authorization. At least, that’s what they told me. It’s the rules—” He broke off fearfully.

Of course,” said Pendergast, slipping the wallet back into his suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. James Breen.”

“Jimmy? He used to take the graveyard shift but after the, the killing, he asked for a transfer to days.”

“So I’ve been told. Where does he work?”

“On the line. Look, you have to put on a hardhat and coat, and I have to tell the boss—”

“The line?”

“The line.” The youth looked confused. “You know, the belt.” He pointed upward at the row of dangling, writhing turkeys.

“In that case, we’ll simply follow the line until we reach him.”

“But, sir, it isn’t allowed—” He glanced at Corrie as if beseeching her for help. Corrie knew him: Bart Bledsoe. Dingleberry Bart. Graduated high school last year, D average, and here he was. A real Medicine Creek success story.

Pendergast set off across the slick cement floor, his suit coat flapping behind him. Bledsoe followed, still protesting, and together they disappeared through a small doorway in the far wall. Corrie ducked quickly in behind them, holding her nose, careful to avoid the turkey shit that was dropping like rain from the conveyor belt overhead.

The room beyond was small, and housed only a long, shallow trough of water. Several yellow signs were placed above it, warning of electrical hazard. The turkeys moved slowly through a fine spray until they reached the trough. Corrie watched from a safe distance as their heads slid helplessly below the level of the water. There was a buzz, then a brief crackling sound. The turkeys stopped struggling, and emerged limp from the water.

“Stunned, I see,” Pendergast said. “Humane. Very humane.”

Corrie swallowed again. She could guess what came next.

The line now proceeded through a narrow port in the far wall, flanked by two thick windows. Pendergast approached one of these windows and peered in. Corrie walked up to the other and gazed through it with trepidation.

The chamber beyond was large and circular. As the now-motionless turkeys moved slowly across it, a machine came forward and precisely nicked their necks with a small blade. Immediately, jets of blood shot out in pulsing streams, spraying the walls, which angled down toward what looked to Corrie like a lake of blood. A man with a machete-like weapon sat to one side, ready to administer the coup de grâce to any turkey the machine missed. She looked away.

“What is the name of this chamber?” Pendergast asked.

“The Blood Room,” Bledsoe replied. He had stopped protesting, and his shoulders hung with a defeated air.

“Appropriate. What happens to the blood?”

“Gets siphoned off into tanks. Trucks take it away, I don’t know where.”