Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

“To be converted into blood meal, no doubt. That blood on the floor looks rather deep.”

“Two feet deep, maybe, this time of day. It gets backed up some as the shift goes on.”

Corrie winced. This was almost as bad as Stott in the cornfield.

And where do the turkeys go next?”

“To the Scalder.”

“Ah. And what’s your name?”

“Bart Bledsoe, sir.”

Pendergast patted the bewildered youth on the back. “Very well, Mr. Bledsoe. Lead on, if you please.”

They took a catwalk around the Blood Room—the smell of fresh blood was sickening—and went through a partition. All of a sudden, the building opened up around them and Corrie found herself in a cavernous space, a single enormous room with the conveyor belt and its hanging turkeys going this way and that, up and down, disappearing in and out of oversized steel boxes. It resembled some infernal Rube Goldberg contraption. The noise was unbearable, and the humidity was beyond saturation: Corrie felt droplets condensing on her arms, her nose, her chin. The place smelled of wet turkey feathers, shit, and something even less pleasant she couldn’t identify. She began to wish she had waited in the car.

The dead, drained birds emerged from the far end of the Blood Room, disappearing again into a huge stainless steel box from which issued a tremendous hissing noise.

“What happens there?” Pendergast asked above the roar, pointing at the steel box.

“That’s the Scalder. The birds get blasted with steam.”

At the far end of the Scalder the endless conveyor belt reemerged, now hung with steaming, dripping birds that were clean and white and partly defeathered.

“And from there?” Pendergast asked.

“They go to the Plucker.”

“Naturally. The Plucker.”

Bledsoe hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “Wait here, sir, please.” And he was gone.

But Pendergast did not wait. He hurried on, Corrie following, and they passed through a partition that surrounded the Plucker, which was actually four machines in series, each sporting dozens of bizarrely shaped rubber fingers that whirred maniacally, plucking feathers off their appointed portions of the birds. Naked, pink-yellow corpses emerged dangling at the far end. From there, the conveyor belt rose up and turned a corner, disappearing out of sight. So far, everything had been automated; except for the man in the Blood Room, the only workers appeared to be people monitoring the machines.

Pendergast walked over to a woman who was watching some dials on the plucking console. “May I interrupt you?” he asked.

As she glanced at him, Corrie recognized Doris Wilson, a no-bullshit bleach-blonde in her fifties, heavy, red-scrubbed face, smoker’s hack, who lived alone in the same trailer park she did, Wyndham Parke Estates.

“You’re the FBI man?”

“And you are?”

“Doris Wilson.”

“May I ask you a few questions, Ms. Wilson?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you know Willie Stott?”

“He was the night cleaning foreman.”

“Did he get along well here?”

“He was a good enough worker.”

“I understood he drank.”

“He was a nipper. Never interfered with his job.”

“He was from away?”

“Alaska.”

“What did he do up there?”

Doris paused to adjust some levers. “Fish cannery.”

“Any idea why he left?”

“Woman trouble, I heard.”

“And why did he stay in Medicine Creek?”

Doris suddenly grinned, exposing a rack of brown, crooked teeth. “The very question we all ask ourselves. In Willie’s case, he found a friend.”

“Who?”

“Swede Cahill. Swede is best friends with everyone who drinks in his bar.”

“Thank you. And now, can you tell me where I can find James Breen?”

Her lips pointed down the conveyor line of turkeys. “Evisceration Area. It’s up there, just before the Deboning Station. Fat guy, black hair, glasses. Loudmouth.”

“Thanks again.”

“No problem.” Doris nodded to Corrie.

Pendergast moved up a metal staircase. Corrie followed. Ascending beside them, the conveyor line of dangling carcasses rumbled toward a high platform that was, finally, manned by people and not machines. Dressed in white, with white caps, they were expertly slicing open the turkeys and sucking out organs with oversized vacuum nozzles. The turkeys then jerked along toward another station, where they were blasted clean with high-pressure hoses. Farther down the line, Corrie could see two men lopping off the heads of the birds and dropping them into a big chute.

Thanksgiving will never be the same, she thought.

There was one black-haired fat man on the line, and he was talking loudly, relating a story at high volume. Corrie caught the word “Stott,” then “last to see him alive.” She glanced at Pendergast.

He smiled briefly in return. “I believe that is our man.”

As they walked down the platform toward Breen, Corrie saw Bart returning, his hair mussed, practically running. And ahead of him was Art Ridder, the plant manager. He was charging across the concrete floor on stumpy legs.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me the FBI was here!” he was shouting to no one in particular. His face was even redder than usual, and Corrie could see a wet turkey feather stuck to the crown of his blow-dried helmet of hair. “This is an off-limits area!”

“Sorry, sir.” Bart was all in a panic. “He just walked in. He’s investigating—”

“I know very well what he’s investigating.” Ridder climbed the ladder and turned to Pendergast, breathing hard, working to bring his trademark smile back onto his face. “How are you, Agent Pendergast?” He held out his hand. “Art Ridder. I remember seeing you at the Sociable.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast replied, taking the proffered hand.

Ridder turned back to Bart, his face losing its smile. “You go back to the dock. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turned to Corrie. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m—” She glanced at Pendergast, waiting for him to say something, but he remained silent.

“I’m with him,” she said.

Ridder cast a querying glance at Pendergast, but the agent was now absorbed in examining a variety of strange equipment that hung from the ceiling.

“I’m his assistant,” said Corrie finally.

Ridder exhaled loudly. Pendergast turned and strolled over to where Jimmy Breen was working—he had shut up when the boss arrived—and began to watch him work.

Ridder spoke, his voice calmer. “Mr. Pendergast, may I invite you to my office, where you’ll find it much more comfortable?”

“I have a few questions for Mr. Breen here.”

“I’ll send Jimmy right over. Bart will show you the way.”

“There is no need to interrupt his work.”

“It’ll be much quieter in the office—”

But Pendergast was already talking to Jimmy. The man continued to work, sticking a nozzle into a turkey and sucking out the guts with a great schloock! while he talked. He glanced at Ridder and then at Pendergast.

“Mr. Breen, I understand you were the last one to see Willie Stott alive.”

“I was, I was,” Jimmy began. “The poor guy. It was that car of his. I hate to say this, but the money he should’ve spent getting that crap-mobile fixed up he spent down at Swede’s instead. That hunk of junk was always breaking down—”

Corrie glanced at Art Ridder, who was standing behind Jimmy now, the ghastly smile once again fixed on his face.

“Jimmy,” Ridder interrupted, “the nozzle goes all the way up, not like that. Excuse me, Mr. Pendergast, but it’s his first day on this job.”

“Yes, Mr. Ridder,” said Jimmy.