PROLOGUE (AUGUST 12, 1997)

Tim Morton walked into his living room.  He welcomed the refrigeration from the central air-conditioning, running full blast to combat the sweltering August heat outside. Pulling his tightly tucked western shirt from the waistband of his jeans, he sat down and placed his foot in the bootjack to remove his Tony Lama cowboy boots. He rolled his shoulders back to release some of the tension of the long day. Managing a swine farm encompassed so much more than day-to-day operations. A guy had to be involved in the community, build good will, be friendly with the right people, sponsor civic activities, show up at events, and lobby politicians.

"Dealing with politicos is the easy part of the job," John Bemish, his former boss and mentor at Iowa Pork used to counsel him. "Tell them how much money they are gonna make and how great agriculture is for their constituents. An’ always feed them lots of booze and a fine pork dinner."

Tim followed the formula, but he didn’t agree about the ‘easy part’. Spending time with a group of folks who drank free beer all day, while he remained sober and ensured everything went off as planned, wore him out. Sure, Tim liked the current Governor of Wyoming Wayne Whitney, and the Chairman of the County Commission, Lenard Ryan, congenial good ol’ boys. He spent the day with them and several members of the Wyoming Legislature touring the less contentious components of the hog raising enterprise and pitching the benefits of adding a slaughterhouse.  The presentation went off without a hitch, as he talked about potential jobs, what kind of permitting might be needed, and possible changes in current laws that would ease the process.

Tim closed his pitch with a barbequed pork sandwich buffet including a variety of cold salads, chips and dips, and a make your own ice cream sundaes table. At dinner a free bar gratified those who preferred to imbibe in stronger beverages. Thank God the Grange Hall with its air conditioning had been available. And damn good thing High Country Pork hired a bus and driver to transport the tipsy Governor and Legislators from and to Cheyenne.

Now he could relax. Tim reached into the liquor cabinet for a bottle of Wild Turkey Kentucky Spirit and started to pick up a heavy glass.

The phone rang. Well, hell, who would be calling at 9:30 at night? He yanked the handset from its cradle.

"Morton."

"This is Jenny, dispatcher with the Coyote County Sheriff’s office. We’ve had another anonymous call. The caller said there is a cow stuck in one of your ponds. The person claimed he saw it at that place where the sows have their litters."

"Oh, the farrowing lagoon. Damn, that’s the third time this month." Tim stood, considering the site. The closest ranch was five miles away. How could a cow get to the lagoon?  And how did anybody see it? The waste pond was impossible to see from the road. You couldn’t even see the damned thing from the main buildings. Unless someone was trespassing…

"Sir?" Jenny pulled him back from his reverie. "All officers on duty are busy right now, so it’ll be about an hour before I can send someone out there."

"Don’t bother," Tim held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he sat down to pull his boots back on. "I’ll check it out. Probably another prank call like the last two. Thanks Jenny."

Tim picked up the keys to his Dodge Ram pickup. These calls didn’t make any sense, but as the boss, he needed to go and look at the shit pit, where the sewage from the pigs was piped to await use as fertilizer.

He walked to the door and yanked it open. In the garage, a wall of heat rose up, trying to push him back into the cool house. Almost ten at night and the thermometer still read ninety. Why did people live here?

Aside from the money, about the only advantage to managing a swine farm in this god forsaken place was the low humidity. When he worked the farms in Iowa and it was this hot, he could never tell if he was sweating or just plain wet.

Tim pulled himself into his pickup, pushed the remote for the opener and backed out. He drove three miles on Highway 72 from his house to the back road leading to the waste pond. There wouldn’t be a cow or any other animal floundering about in the crap.

Twice before he met Sheriff’s Deputies to follow up on reports of creatures trapped in one of High Country Pork’s waste lagoons. One time at the nursery, where piglets were taken after they were weaned, an unknown caller reported a deer caught out in the lake. The second time a man alleged he was driving by and witnessed a dog struggling in a pond near the fattening location for the castrated male hogs, known as barrows. Neither lagoon had anything in it. What the hell was going on?

He figured the prankster was someone from that goddamn group, REEK, what a stupid name, harassing him again. After changing his home phone to an unlisted number because they kept filling up his personal answering machine whining about the stench, the anonymous calls to the Sheriff started.

Tim turned on the access road where signs on both sides of the gate read, ’TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROCECUTED’. He put his truck in park, got keys out of the glove box, and slid out to unlock the secured metal gate. Walking back to the vehicle, he decided to leave the gate unchained and open. He wouldn’t be that long.

Tim left the windows rolled up.  Dust swirled and coated the vehicle as he drove down the dirt track. Less rain than usual this year meant the ponds accumulated less moisture to water down the sewage and dilute the smell.

The truck’s headlights illuminated the greasy sludge of the farrowing lagoon as he pulled up close. He looked as far as the lamps shone and shrugged. As expected - nothing to see. The glow from his lights and the large street lamp over by the pump shed created eerie shadows in the darkness. Unsettled, Tim considered turning around and leaving. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t a quitter. Might as well get this over with so he could go home. If he hurried there might still be time to call her.  

Tim removed the emerald ring from his finger, no point in getting it all mucky if something needed to be done. He pulled a large flashlight from behind the seat and climbed out to have a look around He stepped away from the headlights’ glare and started toward the pump house several yards away. Tim heard a sound to his left and froze. He took a deep steadying lung full of air. Rats or other vermin hung around the lagoons, noisy little night creatures. Still, his hand tightened on the flashlight as he started to carefully circle the pit.

"You goddamn son-of-a-bitch.”

Tim turned, the flashlight his only weapon. Pain exploded in his head. His world went black.

***

Tim opened his eyes, his mind foggy and sluggish. What the hell? Someone was trussing his hands and feet together behind his back. He heard the voice again, an angry snarling growl. “You like pigs so much. Let’s see how you like being hog-tied.”

Tim’s nose transmitted the message to his brain that he was much closer to the lagoon. His cheek lay on a slick surface and he saw the lagoon’s plastic liner illuminated by the beams of the truck lights. He heard the waves lapping at the edge of the pond.

“Hey,” he choked. If someone aimed to scare him, they were doing a damn fine job of it. There was no response.

A boot on his butt propelled his body forward. He slid easily on the heavy plastic toward the pit. He struggled.  He pulled at the binding on his arms and legs. If he could get loose… “Wait.”

As he continued the slide into the brackish liquid, Tim realized he would die. The image of his pretty lady came to mind. He hoped she would know how much he loved her. The ring matching hers was on the dash. Please don’t let it fall into the wrong hands.

Tim caught the glint of the shovel before it slashed deep into his side, cutting to the bones of his rib cage and pushing his body closer to the sewage. If only he could get a breath before ...  The shovel jerked out. It came down again.

He gasped. Ammonia-laced animal waste filled his mouth. He rolled his arms and legs to the side trying to turn over. He rocked back face down. He gagged and tried to cough. Liquid gushed down his throat and through his nose to his lungs. He pulled against the back arch of his shoulders and the immobility of his limbs. Ammonia burned deep into the wound in his side. Unable to breathe, his body on fire, Tim descended into nothingness.

Next Chapter: Chapter 1