The curving driveway bore them up to the parking area on the south side. Just as they broached the top of the hill, the smokestack could be seen off to the east. As was the case when Deborah saw it previously, it was belching smoke.
"You know," Deborah said, "that chimney reminds me there was something about this place I forgot to tell you."
Joanna found a parking spot and pulled in. She turned off the ignition. Silently she counted to ten, hoping that for once Deborah would finish one of her delayed thoughts without Joanna having to ask. "I give up," she said at length. "What did you forget to tell me about?"
"The Cabot had its own crematorium as part of its power plant. It gave me a queasy feeling when I was told about it, wondering if some of the inmates' remains back then could have been used to heat the place."
"What a ghastly thought," Joanna responded. "Why on earth did you think that?"
"I couldn't help it," Deborah said. "The crematorium, the barbed-wire fence, laborers they must have had for the farm – they made me think of Nazi concentration camps."
"Let's go inside," Joanna said. She wasn't about to grace such a thought with a response. She opened the car door and got out. Deborah did the same on her side.
"A crematorium would also be a handy way to cover up any mistakes or mischief of any sort," Deborah added.
"We're late," Joanna said. "Let's get in there and get these jobs."
NINE
THE ODOR WAS WARM, MOIST, fetid, and offensively feral. Paul Saunders was wearing a surgical mask but not for antiseptic purposes. It was purely because he found the smell intolerable in the sow's birthing stall. He was standing with Sheila Donaldson and Greg Lynch, the powerfully built veterinarian he'd been able to entice away from the Tufts University veterinary program with a high salary and the promise of stock options. He and Sheila had surgical gowns over their street clothes and were sporting rubber boots. Greg had on a massive rubber apron and heavy rubber gloves.
"I thought you said this birth was imminent," Paul complained. He had his arms crossed and his hands in surgical gloves.
"All indications are that it is," Greg said. "Besides, we're at day two hundred and eighty-nine in this pregnancy. She's long overdue." He patted the pig's head, and the animal let out a loud prolonged squeal.
"Can't we induce her?" Paul said, wincing at the high pitched shriek. He looked over the stall's railing at Carl Smith as if to ask whether Carl had brought any oxytocin or any other kind of uterine stimulant. Carl was standing by the anesthesia machine they'd purchased for the farm. He was there in case of an emergency.
"It's best we just let nature take its course," Greg said. "It's coming. Trust me."
No sooner were the words out of Greg's mouth than a shower of amniotic fluid sprayed out over the straw-covered floor accompanied by another ear-splitting squeal. Both Paul and Sheila had to leap out of the way to avoid being drenched by the warm fluid.
Paul rolled his eyes once he'd regained his footing. "The indignities I have to bear in the name of science!" he complained. "It's unreal!"
"Things are going to happen pretty quickly now," Greg said. He positioned himself behind the animal, vainly trying to avoid stepping in the feces. The animal was on her side.
"Not soon enough to suit me," Paul said. He looked at Sheila. "When was the last ultrasound?"
"Yesterday," Sheila said. "And I didn't like the size of the umbilical vessels I was able to visualize. You remember I told you, right?"
"Yes, I remember," Paul said, shaking his head dejectedly. "Sometimes the failures we have to endure in this business get to me, especially in this part of the research. If this batch is again all stillborn, I'm going to be at a loss. I don't know what else to try."
"We can at least try to be optimistic," Sheila suggested.
A phone rang in the background. One of the animal handlers watching from the sidelines ran to get it.
The pig squealed again. "Here we go," Greg said. He thrust his gloved hand inside the animal. "She's dilated now. Give me some room."
Paul and Sheila were more than happy to move as far out of the way as the stall would allow.
"Dr. Saunders, I'm supposed to give you a message," the animal handler said. He'd returned from answering the phone and had come up to Paul's right side.
Paul waved the man away. The first of the litter was crowning amid squeals from the mother pig. The next instant, the firstborn was out. But it did not look good, and the dusky blue creature made only feeble attempts to breathe. The umbilical vessels were huge, more than twice the normal size. Greg tied them off and then got ready for the next.
Once the births had started, they happened in rapid succession. Within minutes the entire litter was lined up on the stall's straw-covered floor, bloody and unmoving. Carl had made a motion to pick up the first one to try to resuscitate it, but Paul told him not to bother because there was obviously too much congenital malformation. For several minutes the group silently stared at the pitiful newborns. The sow instinctively ignored them.
"The idea of using the human mitochondria obviously didn't work," Paul said breaking the silence. "It's discouraging. I thought my idea was brilliant. It made so much sense, yet you can tell just by looking at these creatures they all have the same cardiopulmonary pathology as the last group."
"At least we're getting them to go to term consistently," Greg said. "When we started we were dealing with first-trimester miscarriages every time."
Paul sighed. "I want to see a normal offspring, not a stillborn. I’m long past seeing them getting to term as any sign of success."
"Should we autopsy them?" Sheila asked.
"I suppose, to be complete," Paul said without enthusiasm. "We know what the pathology is because it's obviously the same as last time, but it should be documented for posterity. What we need to know is how to eliminate it, so it's back to the proverbial drawing board."
"What about the ovaries?" Sheila asked.
"That goes without saying," Paul said. "That's got to be done now, while they're still alive. The autopsies can wait. If need be, after the ovaries are taken, you can put these creatures in the cooler and autopsy them when convenient. But once the autopsies are done, incinerate the carcasses."
"What about the placenta?" Sheila asked.
"That should be photographed along with the sow," Paul said. He gave the bloody mass a nudge with his rubber boot. "It should also be autopsied. It, too, is obviously abnormal."
"Dr. Saunders," the animal handler said. "About that phone call
"For chissake stop pestering me about the phone!" Paul yelled. "Because if it's about those damn feed trucks, I don't care if they sit out there for twenty-four hours. They were supposed to have arrived yesterday, not today."
"It was not about the trucks," the animal handler said. "In fact, the trucks are already here at the farm."
"What?" Paul cried. "I specifically said they were not to come in until I gave the okay, and I did not give the okay."
"They got the okay from Dr. Wingate," the animal handler said. "That's what the phone message was about. Dr. Wingate is here at the clinic and wants to see you over at the monstrosity."
For a moment the only sounds in the vast barn were the occasional distant moos of the cows, squeals of the other pigs, and the barking of the dogs. Paul and Sheila looked at each other with surprise.
"Did you know he was coming back?" Paul asked Sheila eventually.
"I had no idea," Sheila said.