Clint pulled into The Federal’s parking lot and parked next to the entrance. Even at 3:45 p.m. he would have expected to see many more cars on a typical Wednesday. He walked inside and continued past the vacant hostess station, pushing through the double stainless doors that led to the kitchen the way John Wayne might have entered a saloon in a Western movie. The kitchen was quiet other than the clanking of utensils by staff preparing dishes for the evening. The voices of those who manipulated the utensils remained hushed as melancholy eyes fixed on their tasks.

“Where can I find Nick Vegas?” Clint asked the group. A chef with a white hat closed an oven door after checking on legs of lamb that were roasting. The smell of the garlic, rosemary, and anchovies that he had masterfully studded into the lamb lingered through the air in search of praise, but finding none. The chef looked at Clint and held his arm to his left, pointing in the direction of Nick’s office to the rear of the kitchen. Clint walked through the thirty-foot long kitchen between a line of cooks and preppers. He wasn’t here to do an inspection. That wasn’t his job. But he noted with interest the meticulousness of each task, the cleanliness of the work surfaces, and the tile floor. He noted the digital temperature readings of the coolers, etched in red at 38 degrees, and the readings of the sub-zero freezers. It wasn’t the environment of a callous operator, of a body of people who didn’t care about food or food safety. It had the appearance that Clint wanted to see in all restaurants, and it looked like the last place he would expect to find a lax approach to food safety.

He walked through the open door to the office in the rear. It was a small, rectangular room at the rear of the kitchen that may have been originally designed for storage. As he stuck his head through the door and looked to the right, Clint saw Nick Vegas seated at a desk on the far end. Clint easily recognized Nick from magazine and television images he had seen. Neat, thick black hair that was slicked back and perfectly combed framed a clean-shaven face that was tanned a luxurious shade of mocha.

“Nick Vegas?”

Nick looked up from his computer screen and turned his head left. The visitor looked vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn’t identify him. Still, Clint’s off-the-shelf two-piece suit and laminated FSIS name badge on his left lapel announced official business. Nick knew an official visit would come sooner or later. He was glad that it had come so quickly.

“Yes,” Nick said with a placid smile.

“Mr. Vegas, I’m Clint Justice, Senior Compliance Investigator with the Food Safety and Inspection Service.”

“Ah,” Nick began. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. CNN, right? You were on that segment about food safety.”

“Yes, last month,” Clint said. “And I heard you as well on Fox News discussing your new club, 50-Forks.” Nick smiled with the enthusiasm a mourner has when acknowledging a stranger’s condolences. He reflected on the irony of the situation. Both men squaring off on two sides of the law, each having discussed similar issues on cutthroat, competing news channels.

“Call me Nick. How can I help you?”

“I’m here about the foodborne illnesses that resulted from tainted meat that was served by your chefs—”

“Tainted meat?” Nick interrupted. “How do you know that meat was tainted?” Nick crossed his arms and remained standing.

“We removed samples from each dinner location. I suspect you know this since your chefs allowed us access to the meat,” Clint said.

Nick didn’t respond. Clint continued. “The test results confirmed anthrax, both in the cured ham and in the cooked pork that you served here in Athens. Anthrax was in the white mold of the ham, which very likely contributed to the outbreak of inhalation anthrax.” Nick sat down, but said nothing. He waved his hand to an empty chair, inviting Clint to sit if he would like. Clint remained standing and looked down at Nick.

“I need to know precisely where you got both the ham and the fresh pork,” Clint said. “Purchase orders, receipts, vendor information, everything you have.”

Nick looked up at Clint and delivered his response carefully. “Clint, those illnesses and deaths I’ve read about are tragic. But if they are a result of a foodborne illness, and I’m not saying they are, by your own admission those dinners were private events. They have nothing to do with The Federal or any of my restaurants.” Nick had rehearsed his response many times in the past twenty-fours hours both to himself and on the phone with his attorney who assured him this demand would be forthcoming.

Clint took the seat. He leaned forward and rested his left arm on Nick’s desk. “This issue is very simple, Nick. I’m here representing FSIS and I need the source of that meat. Unless you have something to hide then they are the ones responsible for the anthrax, since anthrax comes from the soil. Now, if you would prefer to not cooperate we will be forced to assume there may have been intended wrongdoing. In that case we’ll have the FBI here tomorrow and at each of your locations.”

Nick heard what he wanted to hear, that he wasn’t the focus of the investigation. He pulled open a file drawer and retrieved Blake’s file, writing down Blake’s address and phone number on his personalized stationary. “Here,” Nick said, handing the note to Clint. “This is the man you want to speak to.”

***

Blake leaned with his back against a pine tree near the entrance to his driveway, his head cocked up and pressed against the bark. His eyes traced the long, straight pine that appeared to pierce the sky as if it were an arrow. Catching his breath, he looked once more at his phone that had registered no service for the past three hours. He was left with no choice but to hobble on his own down the mountain, leaving a trickled path of blood in the woods alongside the road. Twice he had heard a car coming down the road, and twice he had taken cover in thickets to avoid any encounters. To avoid answering helpful questions, such as “why’s your leg bleeding so badly?”

The phone finally registered a single bar next to the time, 6:21 p.m. One single reception bar. Too late to be of any help as he knew he could make it the last few hundred yards. A message flashed on the phone indicating that he had one new voice message. Blake pushed off the tree and grimaced as his right leg seared with pain. He limped along the driveway, unable to move any better on the groomed drive than he had been in the uneven terrain of the woods. He brought the phone to his ear and listened to the message from the 404 area code.

“Mr. Savage this is Clint Justice, Senior Compliance Investigator with the Food Safety and Inspection Service. Nick Vegas has given me your name, number and address as a supplier of meats to him. It’s about this matter that I must speak to you right away. Please call me back at the following number today or tonight.”

Blake stopped and stood in the driveway. He turned and looked behind him to see if anyone was coming, even though he had heard nothing. Another wave of terror washed over him. Momentarily paralyzed, he was afraid to move forward, afraid that vehicles were already at his home, waiting to incarcerate him. He put his left thumb in his mouth and chewed on the nail, unconscious of doing so. He glided his thumbnail back and forth between his upper and lower front teeth as if attempting to floss them as he stared into the gravel drive and played out the scenario. He hobbled slowly through the woods next to the house as he imagined a team of snipers on his own rooftop, armed with long-distance listening devices trained on his direction. In his imagination the sound of the smallest twig cracking sent a barrage of bullets flying into the woods.