"Over here," Tank called out suddenly from the far corner of the yard, near the rusted remains of an old wire fence.
We hurried over. Tank was pointing down at the dirt. The ground here was completely barren. Not a single weed grew in a ten-foot radius. In the center of the dirt patch, barely visible beneath a layer of loose topsoil, was a rusted metal ring.
Tank went to his saddlebags and brought back a heavy entrenching shovel. He drove the blade into the dirt.
He dug for ten minutes in silence, scooping heavy clumps of soil away from the metal ring. The deeper he went, the stronger a smell began to rise from the earth. It was a sharp, chemical odor that burned the back of my throat, smelling like sulfur and degraded plastic.
Tank's shovel hit metal with a dull, hollow thud.
He cleared away the last layer of dirt with his hands.
Buried vertically in the soil was a massive, industrial steel barrel. The lid was severely rusted, and a thick, black sludge was oozing from a crack near the seal, soaking into the surrounding dirt.
I stared at it, my heart pounding in my ears.
It wasn't just one barrel. Looking at the subtle indentations in the barren dirt stretching toward the tree line, I realized there were dozens of them.
Robert had turned his father's backyard into an illegal toxic waste dump.
"Don't touch it," Bear ordered quietly, pulling Tank back from the hole. "That stuff will burn right through your skin."
Suddenly, the sound of an engine approaching made us all turn. A black sedan pulled quickly down the long driveway and slammed into park near the front porch. The doors opened.
Robert stepped out. He was accompanied by a tall man in a grey suit holding a clipboard.
Robert saw the four of us standing in the backyard. His face went completely pale, and then flushed with a terrifying, violent red. He reached into his coat and pulled out his phone.
"You're trespassing," Robert shouted, marching across the grass toward us. "Get off this property right now, or I'm having you all arrested."
Bear didn't move. He stood casually between Robert and the dug-up barrel, his arms crossed over his massive chest.
"Property belongs to Arthur Covington," Bear said evenly. "He gave us the key."
Robert stopped ten feet away. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing with venomous recognition. "You're the waitress. You really think you can play hero here? I know who you are, Maya. I made a phone call after the diner."
My breath hitched.
"I know about Clara," Robert sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "I know you got fired for falsely accusing a family of abuse. I know the state blacklisted you. You're a disgraced, incompetent fraud, and if you think anyone is going to believe a word you say about this property, you're out of your mind."
He pointed a finger directly at my face.
"I have full medical and legal power of attorney as of an hour ago," Robert said, smiling a cold, dead smile. "A judge signed it after my father had a severe, documented cognitive episode this afternoon. You have no legal right to be here. If you aren't gone in thirty seconds, I'm having you arrested for trespassing, breaking and entering, and elder harassment."
The air in the backyard felt suddenly thin. Robert’s words slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I know about Clara.
The memory of that failure, of the legal threats and the crushing humiliation, flooded back. My hands began to shake. Robert saw it. He recognized the fear in my eyes and smiled wider, a look of complete predatory triumph.
"You really thought you could step into my family’s business?" Robert said, taking another step forward. The man in the grey suit remained near the car, furiously typing on his phone. "You're a waitress with a history of delusions. And these guys?" He gestured dismissively at the bikers. "They're just local trash. The police are already on their way. I suggest you run."