Robin Cook: Toxin

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."