Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“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.