Page 79 of Made for You
Shifting my weight to my right foot, I grope for a weapon, but only succeed in knocking something over. A crash is followed by a wet splash, and a metallic scent fills my nose.
Big, buzzing fluorescents switch on above, flicker once, then steady, washing the gray industrial space in flat light. I quickly take in my surroundings—a poured cement floor with drains. Long metal tables, one holding a craggy red shape the size of a small boulder—some poor eviscerated animal. There’s a whole range of machinery. The ejecting end of one feeds into a clear plastic bag, which hangs heavy with a pasty, pink material. It looks like dog food. It smells worse. At least now I can see my best bet at a weapon: the hanging row of cleavers at the back.
Bob muscles the door closed behind him as I limp-run toward the knives. The sound of my breathing expands under the tall, echoey ceiling, like some huge, desperate creature is breathing in my stead. I grab the biggest knife off its hook just as Bob slides the interior dead bolt into place. He’s at one end of the barn, I’m at the other. With my back to the wall, I raise the blade.
“Put that down,” says Bob.
“Neither of us has to get hurt,” I snarl. “You have no idea how strong I am. No idea—”
“No one’s getting hurt,” he interrupts. His beard makes it hard to read his expression. Instead of coming toward me, he walks over to the carcass.
“We should wrap your ankle,” he says, setting his cleaver down on the table with a clatter. “But it’s not safe to go outside yet. We’ll be seen. Best we stay here for a bit. If you don’t mind watching me work.” With his back to me, he wrestles his sweatshirt off. His torso is surprisingly wide and muscled. He gives me the slightest backward glance and jerks his head toward a green plastic bucket chair. “Keep your weight off that ankle.”
Then Bob pulls on elbow-length gloves, lifts the cleaver, and with a practiced swing, starts to hack.
With one eye on Bob, I check my phone. Six missed calls from Andy. Four missed calls from an unknown number. Impulsively, I open up a new text to Andy. I still can’t believe he’s in cahoots with Eden.
WTF Andy. You lied to me. Call off your goons, I’m not going with you.
Immediately, three dots appear. He’s replying.
Where are you????? Julia, let me help you!
Bob’s voice echoes toward me. “Careful. Bet they can track that.”
Fuck. He’s probably right. I power the phone down. Even though it’s the smart thing to do, it gives me a panicked feeling to see the screen go black, like I’m locking myself into a safe room I may never get out of. I sit gingerly in the bucket chair.
I’ve felt isolated for a long time, but this is a whole new level.
My pain is hitting a new level, too, without the distractions of my phone or imminent danger. It rises, filling my sensory landscape, until I can’t tell the difference between my injury and the cruel edge of grief. My twisted ankle and the fact that I may never go home again. My exhausted body and the profound disappointment that I’m not strong enough for what I need to do.
I have no idea how much time has passed inside my bubble of pain when Bob finally pulls his gloves off and approaches. He stops at the big machine near me, the one with the plastic bag attached, and lays an affectionate hand on its shiny surface. “The grinder,” he says, then looks at me intently, as if to gauge my reaction. “Powerful enough to grind meat and bone to a paste.”
I watch him warily.
“It’s funny, processing meat,” he continues. “I make a lot of dog food with the bad pieces. The bones, the parts that aren’t good for anything else. Dogs love it. It makes me feel useful, good inside, like I’ve taken the stuff no one wants. Finally put it to the use it deserves. Something constructive.”
It seems like he’s going to turn it on and give me a full demonstration, but then he reaches for a little stool and sits, facing me. His blue eyes are intense. It’s strange that these are the same eyes that have looked at me through binoculars. Windows. Through layers of removal. And now, we’re a breath apart.
He braces his arms against his legs. “What’s your plan?” His tone isn’t mean, but there isn’t softness either.
“I don’t have one.”
“Seems to me you should be looking for your husband’s killer.”
“I was,” I say, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “And now it looks like I’m running from the law.”
He’s undeterred by my emotion. “You can do both.”
“Why are you helping me, Bob? I thought you hated Bots.”
“Can’t say I love ’em now. But there’s more important things.”
“Like what?”
“You need help.” Stated like this is obvious, even though it answers nothing.
My mind spits out a disturbing image. Bob, hacking Josh’s arm off with one of those cleavers. He has the perfect space here to deal with a dead body and make it disappear—in the bone grinder, for instance.