“Of course.”
“Do you have someone you trust locally?”
“Malcolm.”
“Anyone who understands soil?”
Ruth thought of the county extension office.
Dr. Owen Mercer.
Mid-forties.
Agronomist.
Had once told Glenn his field compaction was “less soil and more brick with worms.”
Glenn liked him because of that.
“Owen Mercer.”
“Contact him.”
“Do not mention illegal dumping by phone.”
“Ask for help diagnosing crop failure.”
Ruth smiled despite herself.
“You've done this before.”
“Unfortunately.”
Owen arrived the following morning.
He was thin, gray-haired at the temples, and wore boots clean enough to prove he spent more time advising farmers than being one.
He knelt beside the dead rye.
Pulled three plants.
Smelled the soil.
Then looked at Ruth.
“How much blood meal?”
She told him.
His eyebrows rose.
“All on this quarter acre?”
“Yes.”
“Ruth.”
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
He stood.
“You didn't fertilize rye.”
“You attempted to embalm Kentucky.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
“Can it recover?”
“The plot?”
“Eventually.”
He examined the soil.
“High nitrogen.”
“Probably salts.”
“Possible oxygen issues.”
“Organic imbalance.”
He looked toward the remaining pile.
“Where did the material come from?”
“Pressler.”
Owen's expression changed slightly.
Ruth noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn't nothing.”
Owen looked toward the road.
“Glenn once asked me about Pressler waste.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How many?”
“Maybe fifteen.”
Ruth’s heartbeat increased.
“What did he ask?”
“Whether certain cleaning compounds could persist in soil.”
Ruth stayed quiet.
Owen looked at her.
“What is going on?”
She pulled out her phone.
Called Sharon on speaker.
Five minutes later, Owen knew enough.
Not everything.
Enough.
His reaction surprised Ruth.
He was not shocked.
He looked tired.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You suspected.”
Owen took off his glasses.
“Pressler Meats has had wastewater issues before.”
“Public?”
“Minor notices.”
“Nothing like buried drums.”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“Because rumors are not evidence.”
Ruth looked toward the pile.
“I have evidence.”
Owen nodded.
“Maybe.”
He crouched again.
“We test.”
He took samples from several depths.
Then from an unaffected control area.
Then the blood meal itself.
Ruth watched every bag labeled.
Chain of custody.
Location.
Time.
Date.
For the first time since finding Glenn’s crate, she felt less alone.