Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 17

Maria Benitez? Who the hell was that? Googling the name could produce ten million hits easily. I wished I had a photographic memory for numbers. I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. Amber waited in her burnt-orange Prius, sipping a coffee. I pulled my convertible top up and grabbed a cup of brew before I joined her.

"Get ready," she said, as she turned the ignition.

"Dare I ask for what?"

"Some pretty harsh realities." Amber's lips twisted briefly. She backed out and drove off.

We rolled past flat fields of soybeans—according to Amber—stretching out in green rows toward a horizon punctuated with trees and a few houses.

"Soybeans are among the most important crops in this region," Amber explained.

"Why?"

"They have many uses. They feed people and livestock, for one thing." Amber paused, taking the time to check before passing a slow-moving farm vehicle. The operator even pulled to the side of the road for her. I marveled at this simple politeness that was so conspicuously absent at home.

"The Eastern Shore is the most concentrated agricultural area in Maryland," she continued, after passing the vehicle. "It makes up nearly a third of Maryland's agricultural land and produces more than half its major crops, like corn, soybean, wheat, and barley."

"You're a regular agricultural encyclopedia."

Amber laughed. "Sorry if I sound like an ad for the Chamber of Commerce. This place and subject have become my life. I don't get to talk to many people about it."

"How about your coworkers at the FPL?"

Amber frowned. "We're running out of those. The FPL has had to cut paid staff. We rely almost exclusively on volunteers and workers funded by grants."

"Is that how your internship works?"

"Yes. It's paid by a grant from the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. Unfortunately, that grant only stretches so far."

I pondered how lonely she must get in that little house in Salisbury. Especially as the only law student, probably eager to talk to someone with similar interests.

My thoughts were interrupted by an overpowering smell.

"Yeesh!" I said, flapping my hand. "Someone's been fertilizing their fields."

"Get used to it. That smell just means we're getting close to the plant."

"You mean ...?"

"Yeah." She turned toward me with a wry smile. "It just gets worse."

*****

We pulled up at the processing plant, a low flat-roofed warehouse-like building, and left the car in the small dirt lot. A short brown man hustled out to greet us. He wore a pair of plastic boots and a slicker. A paper filter swung from an elastic cord around his neck. I focused hard on not succumbing to dry heaves from the overwhelming stench.

"¡Hola, Señorita!" our greeter said, smiling and nodding.

"Hola, Manuel. Ésta es mi amiga, Sam McRae."

"Uh ... hola, Manuel." I extended a hand and he grabbed and shook it, grinning hugely.

"We're taking a tour." Amber gestured that we'd be going inside. "Okay?"

"Sí, sí. Tour? Uno momento."

Manuel disappeared into the building.

"Just getting some protective gear for us," Amber explained.

I nodded. To protect us from what?

Our host reemerged with plastic gear similar to his and masks for each of us. After I'd snapped my filter into place, Amber eyed me.

"Ready?" she said, her voice muffled.

Behind the mask, I grimaced. "As I'll ever be."

Inside, the plant was dimly lit with blue lighting. It took a moment for my vision to adjust. My ears were assaulted, however, with a cacophony of squawking.

"The low lighting is supposed to calm the birds," Amber explained.

"Tell that to the birds," I muttered.

Once my vision had adjusted, my first view was of pails. White plastic pails filled with dead chickens.

I swallowed hard, not only to hold back revulsion but because the stench within the building had a formaldehyde-like bite. The bile rising in my throat wasn't helping matters.

Across the room, I spotted plastic crates full of live chickens. Several workers—mostly women, their faces obscured with strapped on breathing filters—pulled chickens out by their legs in clumps and walked them to two long conveyors. They hung the hapless birds, flapping, by their feet.

"Those conveyors ..." I said, unable to finish.

"Take them to slaughter," Amber said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Do you want to take a closer look?" She sounded solicitous. My eyes must have betrayed my queasiness and disgust.

I swallowed bile. "Yes." I had an opportunity to see how Bower Farms worked from the inside. I didn't want to blow that. So I needed to see what went on, no matter how horrible. The mask wasn't cutting it, but it would have to do.

The mesh platform we trod provided little protection from the unidentifiable liquid sloshing around the floor. I tried to avoid thinking about what it was.

I've always prided myself on being able to stare ugliness in the face and survive. But when I saw those frantic, thrashing chickens being dipped into a tub of water, then jolted with electric shocks—to stun them, Amber said, and make the slaughter "more humane"—I thought I'd lose it. I chomped on my lip so hard, I nearly broke the skin. I thought of birthday cakes and happy kittens to keep from blubbering like a baby.

To distract myself further, I forced myself to converse. "How come it smells so bad?" I croaked.

"The combination of blood, chicken fat, manure, and uric acid makes for a nice brew, doesn't it?" Amber quipped.

I flashed back to every time I'd had chicken soup when I was sick. I nearly threw up in my mask. Never again!

For a moment, the fumes, the lines of chickens headed toward decapitation, and my thoughts threatened to overwhelm me. I staggered to the wall and reached out for support. My fingers touched stickiness and I yanked them back.

"What the hell?" I said.

"Oh, shit." Amber took my arm and ushered me to a wash basin. "Here you go. Rinse up and I'll scrounge up some gloves." Her voice sounded far away, muffled beneath the mask.

"What was that?"

Amber's eyes—her only visible feature above the mask—fixed on me. "You don't want to know."

I grabbed the soap and washed my hands—scrubbing hard, rinsing, and repeating five times.

While Amber went in search of gloves, I watched the women in their repetitive task. My sight had adjusted enough to make out their features—light brown skin and dark eyes, looking impassive above white masks. Chicken-bearing automatons in an endless cycle of grabbing and hanging frightened birds.

I felt like I was in the world's worst sci-fi B-movie ever. Like Soylent Green with chickens.

But it's okay to eat chickens, isn't it? That's what I kept telling myself. But those poor, helpless birds ....

I turned away and leaned against the sink, swallowing and blinking back tears. I couldn't look another minute.

Amber appeared at my elbow, offering the gloves.

"I'm sorry," I said, sniffling and wiping my eyes. I steeled myself. "Could we take a break?"

Her eyes softened. Placing a hand on my arm, she said, "Sure. Don't worry about it."