“The slag money covered the note.”
Luke said quietly:
“I’m not blaming you.”
Earl looked at him.
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“A little.”
Luke swallowed.
“A little.”
“Fair.”
Earl leaned back.
“I blame me too.”
That took the anger away.
Luke asked:
“Why did you say chromium this morning?”
Earl became still.
Then opened a second drawer.
From inside he removed an envelope.
The paper had been folded enough times to soften every edge.
Luke opened it.
A letter from Ashford.
Dated fourteen months earlier.
Dear Mr. Harper,
As part of routine process optimization, Ashford Alloy Works has modified blending procedures associated with secondary furnace residual materials. All material delivered under your beneficial-use agreement remains within company-approved nonhazardous specifications. Due to natural variation, occasional elevated concentrations of chromium and nickel may occur but are not expected to affect intended use.
Luke read it twice.
“Elevated how much?”
Earl shrugged.
“They didn't say.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did Mason say?”
“That it was still legal.”
Luke stared.
“And you believed him?”
Earl’s face hardened.
“I wanted to.”
That answer hurt more.
Luke looked at the black piles through the dirty office window.
Twelve years.
Thousands of loads.
“How much is out there?”
Earl leaned back.
“By weight?”
“Yes.”
“Don't know exactly.”
“Guess.”
“Thirty thousand tons.”
Luke stared.
Earl corrected:
“Maybe forty.”
Luke felt his stomach drop.
Then Earl added:
“Could be more.”
For the next two hours Luke built a spreadsheet.
Delivery tickets.
Years.
Loads.
Average truck weights.
The records were incomplete.
Still enough.
Estimated material:
48,600 tons.
Luke showed Earl.
The old man stared.
“That cannot be right.”
“You kept the tickets.”
Earl looked toward the window.
Nearly fifty thousand tons.
The black ridge along the east pasture suddenly looked different.
Not a pile.
An industrial history.
Luke said:
“I’m testing it.”
Earl nodded.
“Properly.”
“Yes.”
“Not just your class kit.”
“Agreed.”
Luke knew exactly who to call.
Professor Dana Price taught soil chemistry and environmental sampling at Bell County Community College.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Luke?”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Calling before nine.”
“I have children.”
“I've been awake since five.”
“What’s wrong?”
Luke looked at Earl.
Then toward the black field.
“I need to know how to sample a forty-thousand-ton slag pile without doing something stupid.”
Silence.
Professor Price said:
“Start over.”
He did.
By ten-thirty, she was standing at Harper Farms wearing rubber boots, safety glasses, and an expression that made Earl immediately trust her.
Dana was forty-one.
Small.
Direct.
She walked the perimeter before touching anything.
Asked about runoff.
Drainage.
Well locations.
Creek.
Livestock.
Dust.
When the material had been deposited.
Then she looked at Luke.
“Do not use your student test strips as evidence.”
“I know.”
“You were going to.”
“Maybe.”