Kim lowered himself in the club chair and looked at his former wife. Her dark hair, which was always wavy and full, was matted against the top of her head. The small amount of makeup she normally wore was streaked. She was clearly pained, yet her eyes were as bright and sparkly as Kim remembered.

"There's also something I wanted to tell you," Tracy said. "After I had a little time to think, I believe what you did today to Becky took a lot of courage." She paused for a moment while she bit her lip. "I know I couldn't have done it even if I was a surgeon," she added.

"I appreciate your saying that," Kim said. "Thank you.

"I was appalled at first," Tracy admitted.

"Open-heart massage is a desperate act in any circumstance," Kim said. "Doing it on your own daughter is… well, I'm sure the hospital isn't looking at it the same way you are.

"You did it out of love," Tracy said. "It wasn't hubris like I thought at first."

"I did it because it was clear to me the external massage wasn't working," Kim said. "I couldn't let Becky just fade away like it seemed she was doing. No one knew why she was arresting. Of course, now I know why and why the external massage wasn't working."

"I had no idea this E. coli could be such an awful illness," Tracy said.

"Nor did I," Kim said.

The phone's jangle startled both people. Kim snapped up the receiver. "Hello," he barked.

Tracy watched as Kim's face registered first confusion, then irritation.

"Hold it," Kim snapped into the receiver. "Cut the spiel. I'm not interested in your company's Visa card, and I want you off this line." He hung up forcibly.

"It looks like you are expecting a call," Tracy said captiously. She stood up. "I'm intruding. Maybe I should go."

"No," Kim said. But then he immediately corrected himself. "I mean, yes, I'm expecting a call, but no, you shouldn't leave."

Tracy cocked her head to the side. "You're acting strange," she said. "What's going on?"

"I'm a basket case," Kim admitted. "But…"

The phone interrupted Kim's explanation. Again he snatched the receiver off the hook and said a frantic hello.

"It's me again," Marsha said. "And this time I've found something."

"What?" Kim asked. He motioned for Tracy to sit down.

"Something potentially interesting," Marsha said. "On January ninth there is a discrepancy between the USDA paperwork and Higgins and Hancock's."

"How so?" Kim asked.

"There was an extra animal slaughtered at the end of the day," Marsha said. "In the company's records it's designated lot thirty-six, head fifty-seven."

"Oh?" Kim questioned. "Is an extra animal significant?"

"I would think so," Marsha said. "It means the animal wasn't seen by the USDA vet."

"So you mean it could have been unhealthy?" Kim questioned.

"That's a distinct possibility," Marsha said. "And it's supported by the purchase invoice. This final animal wasn't a steer raised for beef. It was a dairy cow bought from a man named Bart Winslow."

"You're going to have to explain," Kim said.

"Well, dairy cows often go for hamburger," Marsha said. "So that's one thing. The other thing is that I recognize the name, Bart Winslow. He's a local guy who's what they call a 'Four-D' man. That means he goes around and picks up downers. Those are dead, diseased, dying, and disabled farm animals. He's supposed to take them to the renderer to be turned into fertilizer or animal feed."

"I'm not sure I want to hear the rest," Kim said. "Don't tell me that they sometimes sell them to the slaughterhouse instead of the renderer."

"Apparently that's what happened with this last animal," Marsha said. "Head fifty-seven in lot thirty-six must have been a downer, probably sick."

"This is disgusting," Kim commented.

"It gets worse," Marsha said. "I found a company deficiency report on the same animal that had nothing to do with its being sick or not having been seen by the vet. Are you ready for this… it's revolting."

"Tell me!" Kim urged.

"Uh-oh!" Marsha said. "Somebody is at the door. I got to get these papers back in the file!"

Kim heard a loud thump. In the background he could hear the rustling of papers and then the distinctive sound of a file cabinet drawer being slammed shut.

"Marsha!" Kim yelled.

Marsha didn't come back on the line. Instead Kim heard the sound of shattering glass. It was loud enough to make him jump. For a split second he reflexively pulled the phone away from his ear.

"Marsha!" Kim shouted again. But she didn't answer. Instead he heard the unmistakable sound of furniture being upended and crashing to the floor. Then there was a heavy silence.

Kim pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at Tracy. His eyes reflected the terror he felt.

"What's going on?" Tracy questioned with alarm. "Was that Marsha Baldwin?"

"I think she's in danger!" Kim blurted. "My God!"

"Danger from what?" Tracy demanded, sensing Kim's frenzy.

"I have to go!" Kim cried. "It's my fault!"

"What is your fault?" Tracy cried. "Please, what's going on?"

Kim didn't answer but rather spun on his heels and dashed from the house. In his haste, he left the front door ajar. Tracy ran after him, demanding to know where he was going.

"Stay here," Kim yelled, just before jumping into his car. "I'll be right back." The driver door slammed. A moment later the engine roared to life. Kim gunned the car backward out into the street. Then he raced off into the night.

Tracy ran a hand through her matted hair. She had no idea what was going on nor what she should do. At first she entertained the idea of getting into her car and driving home. But Kim's frenzy worried her, and she wanted to know what it was all about. Besides, the thought of being home was not appealing; she'd already fled from there.

The cold rain finally made up Tracy 's mind for her. She turned around and went back into the house. As Kim had suggested, she'd wait there.

The chase had started with the shattering of the door's glass panel. A gloved hand had reached in through the jagged edges and unlocked the door. The door had then burst open, slamming against the wall.

Marsha had let out a short shriek. She'd found herself facing a gaunt, dark-complected man wielding a long knife. The man had taken a step toward her, when she'd turned and fled, tipping over chairs behind her in hopes of hindering the man's pursuit. She instinctively knew he was there to kill her.

Frantically she unlocked the rear door. Behind her she could hear cursing in Spanish and the crashing of chairs. She didn't dare look back. Out in the hall, she ran headlong in search of anyone, even the intimidating guard. She tried to yell for help, but, in the effort of flight, her voice was hoarse.

She dashed past empty offices. At the end of the hall, she hurried into a lunchroom. One of the many long tables held a small collection of lunchboxes and thermos bottles, but their owners were nowhere in sight. Behind her, she could hear running footfalls gaining on her.

At the far end of the lunchroom, a door stood open. Beyond it was a half flight of stairs that terminated at a stout fire door. With little choice, Marsha ran across the room, strewing her path with as many of the lunchroom chairs as she could. She mounted the stairs two at a time. By the time she got to the fire door, she was seriously sucking air. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer struggling with the upturned chairs.

Yanking open the fire door, Marsha darted into the vast, cold room beyond. This was the kill floor, and in the semidarkness created by widely spaced night-lights, it had a ghastly, alien look, especially since it had been recently steam-cleaned. A cold, gray mist shrouded the ghostly, metal catwalks, the sinister hooks hanging from the ceiling rails, and the stainless-steel abattoir equipment.