After fifteen minutes and a fresh layer of straw, when
everyone had their beer refilled, Milo returned to the pit.
“All right,
let’s get to the main event!” He raised an arm, one door opened, and Achilles came
out, squawking and waving his red wings.
The crowd roared again. The woman
who’d kicked her chair over waved her arms and screeched.
Milo
pointed to the other door. “Achilles, winner of the night’s first bout, takes
on his challenger—Kristianne!”
A woman
stalked out into the cage. She wore a black vest around her chest, tight shorts
that hugged her butt, and high black boots. She had muscular thighs and thick
shoulders, and she clutched two long daggers in her hands.
Achilles
strained at his leash, the spike on his head darting back and forth. One of the
wranglers pulled him back, yanking the leash hard.
Again the
bookies started working the room, taking bets and collecting cash.
Dulcie
walked up to us. “What do you want? It’s three to five on Achilles.”
Hector
pulled out a twenty. “Achilles.” Then he nudged me. “How much?”
Right. They’d get suspicious if I
just sat here. “Uh, twenty on Kristianne.”
She handed me a slip of paper. I
was glad Rachel wasn’t here.
Milo rang the bell again. “All bets
down! All bets down! Get ready! Hang onto your tickets!” He stepped aside.
Troy looked out at the audience,
his body tense, his daggers high. “Bring it on!”
One wrangler unhooked the leash
from Achilles’ collar. The other one zapped him with an electric prod, and then
they both dived back through the door and locked it up again.
Achilles charged forward, thrashing
around in panic or pain. Or anger. The spike on his head rose up and down,
seeking a target for his rage.
Kristianne stabbed at the chicken’s
neck. But Achilles lifted a foot and slashed a spur across her knee.
Kristianne staggered back and
lifted a dagger, her leg firm in the straw.
Achilles spun. Kristianne plunged
her dagger forward, but she only pierced a wing. Then Achilles lowered his head
and rammed the spike into her shoulder.
The spike tore a gash down her arm,
drawing blood. The chicken danced away, flapping his wings and squawking. Kristianne
spun her daggers, catching her breath.
Men and women were on their feet, pounding
their arms like football fans shouting for their favorite players. “Rip her
guts out!” That came from a twenty-something woman in tight leather jeans two
rows down from me. “Get his spleen! Are you a man or a chicken? Let’s see some
blood!”
My stomach lurched. I’d seen
enough. I handed my slip to Hector. “Take this. Let me know if she wins.”
“But it’s
not over yet!”
“That’s okay.” I stumbled past him
as the crowd howled. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I staggered
up the ramp. Dulcie shook her head as I veered toward the door. “No refunds.”
“Fine.” I tore
the pass off my shirt and tossed it at a trash can. “Nice meeting you. Have a
great night.”
I leaned against my Honda outside, fighting the need to
vomit on the pavement.
I could
call the cops right now. This kind of fight had to be illegal. They could link
it to Jared Burroughs’ death. They’d see the giant chickens. They’d have to
believe it.
But I’d
been a reporter and a P.I. too long to just run out and let other people
collect the facts. I had to know what was going on.
For a
moment I felt like my old self again. Before the depression, the anxiety, the
PTSD. I could do this.
So now
what? I couldn’t leave without Rachel. I looked around the dark, empty parking
lot. Then I peered into my car.
The burner phone lay on the
driver’s seat.
Rachel has
a key to the Honda, of course.
I opened
the door and pulled my own phone in the armrest compartment. Rachel’s phone was
gone, Good.
I sent a text: “?”
Three
seconds later she responded: “Behind long building.”
I closed and locked the door as
quietly as possible. Then I headed around the metal building attached to the
barn.
My back clenched
as I bent down. I paused, took a deep breath, and gave in to curiosity and my
aching back. Lifting my eyes slowly to peer through a window reinforced with
thin wire. A gray-haired man sat at a desk working at a computer in front of a
cage. Something moved inside the cage, large and angular, but I couldn’t get a
good glimpse.
Ducking down again, I made my way
around the building.
I froze. A
cigarette glowed in the darkness. Rachel doesn’t smoke, so it had to be someone
else. As my eyes adjusted, I saw two figures leaning against the structure. One
was Rachel.
They talked
in low voices. I heard Rachel laugh.
Finally the
guy put his cigarette out and opened a door. He held it, as if inviting Rachel
inside.
I stayed
put, but Rachel looked around and spotted me and waved an arm. So I walked
over.
“This is
Jay.” Rachel gestured toward the man. “He’s a technician inside. He said he’d
show me around. This is Tom. My boyfriend.”
Jay had
blonde hair and a thin goatee. One eye twitched when he heard the word
“boyfriend,” but he shook my hand. “I was just telling Rachel what we’re doing
in here. Do you want to see?”
I glanced
at Rachel. “Sure.”
Two steps
up, and the interior smelled like, well, a chicken coop. Not that I’ve spent
much time in chicken coops, but this was how I imagined they might smell: feces
mixed with straw and ammonia. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling down the
middle of a row of cages.
Six
chickens, ranging in size from three to five feet, lay sleeping on mats of
straw with dishes of water in food in the corners of their cages. Metal
nameplates identified them, and a sheet of information in a plastic packet hung
by the lock to each cage. Each chicken had a leather collar around its neck.
One
nameplate read “Kull.” The chicken inside was almost as tall as me, with orange
feathers and a sharp beak. The data sheet hanging from the cage might have been
in ancient Etruscan. I couldn’t understand anything more than the punctuation
marks.
Some of the
cages were empty. One held the nameplate “Lucas.” The other belonged to
Achilles. I wondered if he’d be coming back.
“How many
have you raised?” I looked down the row of cages.
“Ten so
far. We have others in incubation.” He pointed to a refrigerator with a glass
door. Dozens of eggs sat under a dim yellow light.
“Wow.”
Rachel his her repulsion. “How do you . . . do it? Some kind of. . . . genetic
engineering?”
Jay nodded.
“First the hens get additives in their feed. When they lay, a growth hormone is
injected through the eggshell. The needle is really thin. Then the chicks get a
different supplement orally after birth—”
“Jay? What
the hell is this?” It was the scientist I’d watched through the window stalking
toward us. “No one’s supposed to be here!”
“She’s okay,
Harvey. They’re—” Jay flicked her eyes at me. “They’re okay. They were just interested.
Rachel, and, uh, whoever you are? This is Harvey Duff. He’s a genius.”
“This is—“ Rachel managed to choke
out a word. “Fascinating.”
I leaned
forward to shake his hand. “Tom Jurgen. I was watching the fights. Incredible
work with those chickens.”
Harvey ignored
my hand, and then turned and stalked away. Presumably back to his computer. And
maybe to a phone.
I glanced
at Rachel. She nodded. “Thanks for showing us around, Jay. We don’t want to get
you into any trouble.”
“Right.” He
smiled. “No trouble. Nice meeting you both.”
Outside I
leaned against the wall, catching my breath. “Nice guy.”
“My
spidey-sense was tingling.” Rachel looked at the door. “I think I know him from
somewhere, but he didn’t recognize me.”
A roar rose
from the barn as we rounded the end of the building. The fight was over. “You
flirted with him, didn’t you?”
“He flirted
with me.” He bumped her shoulder against me. “I like it when you’re jealous.”
Yeah. “What’d
you tell that young handsome guy about being out here?”
“That I
couldn’t watch the fighting, but my idiot boyfriend couldn’t take his eyes off
it.”
“So, the
truth. Good.” I looked in the windows. Duff was indeed on the phone, waving an
angry arm around. “Let’s get out of here.”
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