Bledsoe hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “Wait here, sir, please.” And he was gone.
But Pendergast did not wait. He hurried on, Corrie following, and they passed through a partition that surrounded the Plucker, which was actually four machines in series, each sporting dozens of bizarrely shaped rubber fingers that whirred maniacally, plucking feathers off their appointed portions of the birds. Naked, pink-yellow corpses emerged dangling at the far end. From there, the conveyor belt rose up and turned a corner, disappearing out of sight. So far, everything had been automated; except for the man in the Blood Room, the only workers appeared to be people monitoring the machines.
Pendergast walked over to a woman who was watching some dials on the plucking console. “May I interrupt you?” he asked.
As she glanced at him, Corrie recognized Doris Wilson, a no-bullshit bleach-blonde in her fifties, heavy, red- scrubbed face, smoker’s hack, who lived alone in the same trailer park she did, Wyndham Parke Estates.
“You’re the FBI man?”
“And you are?”
“Doris Wilson.”
“May I ask you a few questions, Ms. Wilson?”
“Shoot.”
“Did you know Willie Stott?”
“He was the night cleaning foreman.”
“Did he get along well here?”
“He was a good enough worker.”
“I understood he drank.”
“He was a nipper. Never interfered with his job.”
“He was from away?”
“Alaska.”
“What did he do up there?”
Doris paused to adjust some levers. “Fish cannery.”
“Any idea why he left?”
“Woman trouble, I heard.”
“And why did he stay in Medicine Creek?”
Doris suddenly grinned, exposing a rack of brown, crooked teeth. “The very question we all ask ourselves. In Willie’s case, he found a friend.”
“Who?”
“Swede Cahill. Swede is best friends with everyone who drinks in his bar.”
“Thank you. And now, can you tell me where I can find James Breen?”
Her lips pointed down the conveyor line of turkeys. “Evisceration Area. It’s up there, just before the Deboning Station. Fat guy, black hair, glasses. Loudmouth.”
“Thanks again.”
“No problem.” Doris nodded to Corrie.
Pendergast moved up a metal staircase. Corrie followed. Ascending beside them, the conveyor line of dangling carcasses rumbled toward a high platform that was, finally, manned by people and not machines. Dressed in white, with white caps, they were expertly slicing open the turkeys and sucking out organs with oversized vacuum nozzles. The turkeys then jerked along toward another station, where they were blasted clean with high-pressure hoses. Farther down the line, Corrie could see two men lopping off the heads of the birds and dropping them into a big chute.
There was one black-haired fat man on the line, and he was talking loudly, relating a story at high volume. Corrie caught the word “Stott,” then “last to see him alive.” She glanced at Pendergast.
He smiled briefly in return. “I believe that is our man.”
As they walked down the platform toward Breen, Corrie saw Bart returning, his hair mussed, practically running. And ahead of him was Art Ridder, the plant manager. He was charging across the concrete floor on stumpy legs.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me the FBI was here!” he was shouting to no one in particular. His face was even redder than usual, and Corrie could see a wet turkey feather stuck to the crown of his blow-dried helmet of hair. “This is an off-limits area!”
“Sorry, sir.” Bart was all in a panic. “He just walked in. He’s investigating—”
“I know very well what he’s investigating.” Ridder climbed the ladder and turned to Pendergast, breathing hard, working to bring his trademark smile back onto his face. “How are you, Agent Pendergast?” He held out his hand. “Art Ridder. I remember seeing you at the Sociable.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast replied, taking the proffered hand.
Ridder turned back to Bart, his face losing its smile. “You go back to the dock. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turned to Corrie. “What are you doing here?”
