According to my GPS, Hewitt Hog Producers is on the right, dead ahead. I descend another hill and enter bottomland. The foliage thickens. Mature trees encroach, casting me in shadow. I’m looking for a sign or mailbox, an overgrown driveway or lane on the right. I’ve just crossed the creek for the third time when a barely visible path to the left snags my attention. I hit the brakes hard enough to lock up my shoulder harness.
I make the turn onto an overgrown lane. The Crown Vic bumps over old ruts and dry mud holes. Tree branches and scrub scratch the doors as I squeeze the vehicle through the cavelike entrance. A hundred yards in, the trees open to what had once been a large gravel lot. A huge metal building juts from the earth like primitive ruins. Streaks of rust the color of old blood give the building the look of a felled beast. Silos punctuate each end of the building.
I park in an open area, well away from hip-high weeds that could be concealing holes or snakes or God only knows what. I’m about to call Glock to let him know the map had it wrong, when I hear the crunch of tires. I glance toward the entrance to see his cruiser pull in. He parks behind my Crown Vic. I get out and retrieve the canvas bag in which I packed a couple of hand spades and a folding shovel.
I reach Glock as he’s opening his trunk. “Hey, Chief.”
“Any problem finding the place?” I ask.
“Naw.” He lifts the first metal detector and leans it against the bumper. “Only drove by it four times.”
Grinning, I look toward the main building. A dilapidated chain-link fence encloses what had once been the electrical box. The fence has been cut; the electrical box door has been pried off its hinges.
“Looks like the copper thieves have come and gone.” He leans the second metal detector against the bumper and slams the trunk. “How long has this place been closed?”
“Around eighteen years. Give or take.”
“Looks it.” He straightens, his eyes skimming the trees and thick underbrush. He’s not the uneasy type, but I sense his tension. I feel that same tension creeping into my own psyche. We’re isolated here and surrounded on all sides by perfect hiding places. If you wanted to ambush a cop, this would be the perfect place to do it.
As if realizing my train of thought, he grins. “Keep expecting to see zombies walking out of those trees.”
“If that happens, it’s every man for himself.” I lift one of the canvas bags and heft it onto my shoulder.
The front of the building is stucco that’s covered with green moss. The remainder is corrugated steel. From where I’m standing I see the remnants of what had once been huge roof fans, probably for dispersing heat and the stench in the summer. We don’t speak as we weave through weeds and sapling trees toward the front door. Around us the woods are alive with the echo of birdsong and cicadas. A faded wooden sign dotted with bird shit is propped against a scraggly looking juniper that had once been part of the landscaping. I can just make out the faded print, HEWITT HOG PRODUCERS, and the logo of a smiling white pig. Next to it a faded NO TRESPASSING sign welcomes us.
“SO know we’re out here?” Glock asks, referring to the sheriff’s department.
I nod. “I called and let them know we were going to take a look around.”
The front door hangs at a precarious angle by a single hinge and creaks in the breeze. The wood is naked of paint and warped from the elements. Beyond, I see what had once been a reception area of sorts and several offices.
Glock reaches the door first and slips inside. “What’s the story on this place, anyway?” he asks as he enters the reception area.
“It closed down after some kind of problem with the EPA. Paid a big fine for dumping waste into a watershed.” I follow him inside and am immediately met with the smell of rotting wood and the vaguely unpleasant odor of mildew. “Hewitt abandoned the business, didn’t tell anyone there were a dozen or so hogs left behind. Agents came out and euthanized the animals.”
Glock turns and looks at me. “Always hate hearing shit like that. People who abuse animals are fucked up.”
“I agree.”
“Bodes well for why we’re here, though.”
“Yes, it does.”
We’re midway through the offices. There’s not much left. Except for a single swivel chair with a missing base, the furniture is gone. The office doors are nowhere in sight. Graffiti covers most of the walls. Some of it’s colorful and creative, but most looks like the mindless work of paint huffers. I see a single glass meth pipe on the floor. Several aerosol cans strewn about. The tiny bones of what looks like a long-dead rodent. Dirt and lichens and other indistinguishable organic matter grow everywhere.