Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller Read online

  Lonnie drove slowly north along Hale Ridge, not sure what he was trolling for. He rode with the window down, but heard only the sound of gravel under his tires. In the woods the F100 spurted and stopped a quarter mile short of its destination. Blake turned the key. The motor whined, but didn’t turn over. He tried again, but he knew the truck was finished. Sort of a fitting end, he figured, for the truck to breath its final breath on the mountainside where all of his own troubles began.

  He grabbed his long hunting knife, got out, and began walking the final quarter mile.

  Lonnie came around a curve and stopped where an old logging road veered off to the left. He shut off his SUV and listened. He got out and stood, listening closely for any sound. The forest was quiet, not even the rustling of a squirrel or the song of a bird to accompany him. He looked back at his watch and saw that it was 11:22. “Shoot, I’ll barely make it to the high school,” he said to himself. He got in his SUV, used the logging road to turn around and headed back down the mountain, making a mental note to return.

  Ozzie bolted across the logging road and onto the other side. He could no longer hear the monster, but he could smell its breath. And he could smell man. But there was something else he could smell. Something faint, but very familiar. He could smell his mother.

  ***

  The woods surrounding Isabella were silent. As Blake approached, she lay there in the mud, not rising for food, water, or shelter. For two days she had stared into the woods but hadn’t seen the woods. She reflected on her life. Eduardo, so strong and vibrant, was with her, as was Felipe and Ozzie, both babies and both from her first and only litter. Felipe was the oldest, born a full four minutes before the younger Ozzie, and Felipe never let him forget it. Now they were all gone and Isabella was left alone, imprisoned. She knew her fate and just wanted it to all be over at that point.

  Blake cut the power to the fence for the final time and walked to Isabella’s paddock. She was a big sow. Would have made some great hams, Blake thought, as he took in her prodigious size. He would have preferred to shoot her, but couldn’t risk a loud noise given all the attention surrounding him. She had to be dispatched quietly and then left to die and rot, morphing back into the soil and taking with her the final breaths of Blake’s sins.

  With his electric prod in hand, Blake walked behind Isabella, who lay still. He stuck her in the rump, the shock proving too much for Isabella to resist and forcing her to her feet. Still, she gave no resistance. With no difficulty he walked her into the entrance cage and used a half sheet of plywood to push her against the side. She slumped quietly and looked out through the open gate, already seeming as lifeless as a living creature could be. She had no desire to run, flee or live.

  Ozzie approached the widening entrance of the cul-de-sac just as Blake slammed the board against his mother. He stopped just long enough to see Blake extract a long, steely knife from his side. The blade reflected the midday sun brightly into Ozzie’s eyes, kindling a series of horrific memories. Memories that had always haunted and paralyzed Ozzie, but now, they fueled his rage. He pawed the ground and grunted a deep, menacing sound. Isabella tensed her body. Her eyes rose as she saw Ozzie, the mirage, charging from thirty yards away.

  Blake felt Isabella’s tension and turned to the sound crashing through the brush. His eyes and mouth opened wide, and so terrified was he by Ozzie’s size and speed that the knife slipped from his quivering hands. Isabella, with all the strength a mother can muster, leaned against the plywood and pushed Blake back against the other side of the cage, momentarily pinning him with plywood. Trapped against the inside of the cage, Blake froze at the sight of the gleaming tusks on the wild boar that now blocked his exit. Every hair on Ozzie’s body bristled and stood erect like an enormous cornered porcupine. But he was no porcupine. He was 350 pounds of solid muscle and tusk, deadlier and more menacing than any defensive end that had ever pummeled Blake into the turf.

  Isabella moved to block the entrance to her paddock as Ozzie blocked the only other way out. With renewed life she stood there, her immense four hundred pound frame looming and holding Blake in place. She looked past Blake to her baby, her son who she feared was dead along with so many others. “Ozzie!” Isabella said, wanting to embrace him, to feel his warmth against her shoulder. Ozzie, too, had wanted the same thing for so long. But now, in this moment, he was not his mama’s boy, and he didn’t acknowledge Isabella. Instead, he guarded the cage opening, his shoulders taking up the width of it as he pierced Blake with his eyes. The man who had denied them their freedom, their lives together, now stood trapped before him.

  “This is the monster,” Ozzie told himself. “The monster of all monsters.” Ozzie opened his mouth and flashed his gleaming tusks. Blake’s eyes widened at the sight of the rippers. Tusks nearing six inches in length that looked sharper than any weapon Blake had ever seen. Ozzie moved his lower jaw left and right, back and forth. As he did, he tilted his head left then right as if he was in a trance, all the while never taking his eyes from Blake’s. Back and forth Ozzie swayed his head, a pendulum of death that hypnotized Blake. He lifted his feet, his hooves, and pawed at the ground. Blake felt that he was being taunted. That if he made a move, ANY move, Ozzie would shred him. That if he stood there, Ozzie would attack him just the same.

  With nothing else to protect himself, Blake held the flimsy half sheet of plywood in front of him. A mature, wild hog stood on each side of him. He knew the board was no match for one, let alone two. There was nowhere up or around to go. Looking down at the knife on the ground, Blake wished he had it, but had no idea what he would do with it now if he did. Ozzie saw Blake’s gaze and took one step forward to loom over the knife, mocking Blake in a language that he couldn’t understand, as if to say, “Is this what you want? Why don’t you reach for it?”

  Ozzie taunted him, dared him, begged Blake to make a move. He wanted Blake to charge just as the coyotes had charged. Blake pressed his back against the long side of the cage and felt his heart pound so hard that he glanced down to see if it had beaten through his chest.

  A raspy, menacing breath came from Ozzie’s mouth as he flared his nostrils at Blake.

  “Ozzie,” Isabella called, gently.

  He kept his gaze on Blake, ignoring his mother’s call. He was intent on tearing into Blake so badly, ripping him to shreds for what he had done to everyone. Feelings he had never had before brewed inside him like a hurricane of rage and hatred.

  “Ozzie! Don’t do it!” Isabella was louder now, pleading with him.

  Ozzie stepped closer to Blake, close enough to touch the board with his snout. One half inch of plywood was all that separated Ozzie from Blake’s legs, the half sheet only rising to just over Blake’s knees. Ozzie stuck his snout a foot away from Blake’s groin and sniffed.

  Blake panicked. He raised the sheet and kicked the plywood hard into Ozzie’s snout. Infuriated, Ozzie rammed right into the board, just as he had rammed into the stump, and penetrated the plywood as easily as a needle going into a balloon. Blake held on for dear life, taking splinters in his palms as he gripped with all his might. He looked down to see that one of Ozzie’s rippers had come clean through the board and tore his pant leg above his knee. Blake felt a sudden burning sensation and saw blood seep through his jeans.

  “Shit!” Blake said. He panicked even more, and lifted the toe of his steel-toe boot to support the board so he could push the board down to the ground. Ozzie freed his tusk and retreated slightly to reassess his attack.

  A blurry black mass suddenly swooshed in front of Blake’s face from above as a raven descended and besieged him, shrieking and tormenting him in his cage of hell. Blake tucked into a fetal position behind the board and found his face only inches from Ozzie’s. His eyes widened at the sight of Ozzie’s right ripper, the tip smeared red with Blake’s blood. Ozzie tasted the blood, smacked, and began swaying at Blake once more as his breath smothered Blake’s face. Blake lunged back against the cage.

  The tast
e of blood crazed Ozzie. He pawed the ground and kicked up dirt.

  “OZZIE!” Isabella pleaded once more. “We’re NOT like them, Ozzie. We don’t torture others. We just want to be left alone.”

  Isabella’s pleas penetrated Ozzie’s concentration. Ozzie broke his gaze from Blake and dropped his eyes to the ground. He snorted and turned his head slightly, enough to see both his mother and to see Blake.

  “Let’s just go,” she repeated.

  “Where’s Felipe?” Ozzie asked sternly, keeping his gaze centered on Blake, who stood nearly breathless between two wild, black hogs that were grunting to one another, as if they were talking. As if they could communicate, share ideas, and plan an attack.

  Isabella hung her head and began to cry. “He’s dead, Ozzie! Everyone’s dead! We’re all that’s left. But you can’t—”

  Ozzie fumed and started panting quickly. He turned back to Blake, to let him see the hatred in his swirling eyes. “But nothing, mom! This is the monster that killed my father, that killed Felipe.” Ozzie pawed the ground and prepared to blitz.

  “OZZIE, it won’t bring back your father!” Isabella shouted. “It won’t bring back Felipe. It won’t bring anyone back! It will only make you like them.”

  Ozzie panted, pawed and swayed.

  “Ozzie, I won’t have it! I want no part of any more killing, any more oppression. Any more hatred! I’m leaving this place with or without you.”

  Ozzie fumed and lurched forward. Blake flinched and pulled back. Ozzie hit the board, but stopped, not ramming it with much effort as his mother’s words had momentarily thwarted his attack. He was only toying with Blake, taking delight in scaring him.

  Blake still had his head turned with his eyes flinched as Isabella pushed past him and shoved Ozzie back. She walked through the gate and tasted freedom for the first time since she was kidnapped from Ossabaw Island, almost two years before.

  Ozzie lunged forward again and pinned Blake between the board and the cage. He turned to see his mother walking away, alone. Ozzie stood eye level to Blake’s meaty thighs, easily within reach over the torn sheet of plywood. He looked up at the man who stood before him, seeing not a terrifying monster, but a terrified, quivering man. He looked back at his mother and slowly took a step backwards. Then another. He turned, walked through the gate, and stood on the other side, turning to shoot Blake a final look, a final warning.

  Then, Ozzie walked into the wilderness with his mother.

  Blake collapsed onto the ground. His hands shook violently but still clutched the board as he watched the pair lumber side by side into the woods. He looked at his hands, his knuckles white from gripping the board with all his might, and he finally loosened his grip. He looked back at the pigs, thinking that these two captured pigs had found what he was now in want of. Freedom. Refuge. Just to live simply and to be left alone. Blake felt that he was the one now imprisoned, only he had built the walls and incarcerated himself with his greed.

  He remembered that there was a third, a red-haired Tamworth breed of pig out there somewhere, one of only three that he had been raising before he ever started messing with these wild pigs. Back when he raised only a few pigs for Angelica and himself. She, too, had escaped and was out there somewhere. They had each found a way to win their freedom.

  Blake prayed that he could win his as he looked down at the blood soaking through his jeans.

  Chapter 30

  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 si
mple, 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.