“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 taste 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—”