meth. Had never even seen the stuff. Even if Sam was nuts enough to arrest him, he'd be able to prove his innocence.
And his corn was going to be ready to harvest by the weekend. Which was the other reason he was in the barn that morning--making his way to the combine to make certain that the belts were tight and to adjust and oil the roller chains.
This harvest was critical if he had any hope of becoming financially solvent. He had no family to fall back on. No brothers or parents or in-laws.
He had a grandfather who was dying.
And if he didn't make a profit, they might not even have their home.
The corn had tested at twenty-two and a half percent moisture content the day before. At an average loss of three-quarters of a percent per day, and a minimum kernel damage at nineteen percent moisture, he'd have to be out in the field by Saturday.
He already had a couple of guys set up to help him.
Waiting any longer than Saturday and he'd be looking at an ear droppage of ten to twenty bushels per acre, a potential loss he couldn't afford.
And that was it. There was no way he could afford to be in jail--even for a day--while they proved that Sam had overreacted.
Besides, how could someone have accessed his land and his barn without him knowing it? Zodiac wouldn't allow it. And the storage barn was kept locked.
Kneeling down at the edge of the large cement slab, Kyle glanced over the rest of the chemicals stored there. Insecticide. Pesticide. All on pallets. All in solid containers, no rust or potential leak sites. Though it took time he didn't have, he checked each one against the sheet he'd brought out with him. Nothing else was missing.
He studied the fifty-five-gallon tank as if it could give him an accounting of the missing gas.
And then he noticed it. The cap was firmly closed, but the rubberized seal around the hose insertion area didn't look even. On closer inspection, Kyle started to breathe a little easier. It appeared as though something had been gnawing on the cap. The back side was whittled away. Which meant that the methanol had been exposed to air. For months.
Air facilitated evaporation.
He should have noticed the damaged seal straight off. Should have checked for it. Would have checked if Sam hadn't made him so damned paranoid.
He'd been fretting over jail time just because he'd never before heard of a varmint breaking a seal on a methanol tank.
But he had a bigger problem. A much bigger problem. The past hour had made it abundantly clear to him that Sam had destroyed the trust between them, something that not even their broken engagement or his marriage had done. And trust, once broken, couldn't be fixed.
Watching Maggie Winston any chance she got outside of her regular duties over the next week took time away from Sam's hunt for evidence of a meth lab. But it didn't take her mind off the problem. Or Kyle. Sitting alone in her cruiser, or the Mustang, gave her too much time to think.
She was going to have to talk to him. Sherry Mahon had been part of their lives for fifteen years, and Sam hadn't even known it. Now she did.
What if Kyle had had a child with the woman? And abandoned it?
They needed to talk.
Chandler had built a new high school facility since Kyle, Kelly and she had graduated. The property, along with an initial building fund, had been donated, and the town had resoundingly passed a tax levy. The new facility--just outside city limits--boasted a state-of-the-art sports facility, football field and computer lab.
Sam volunteered herself for the high school dismissal speed-control detail that the county ran every single day. That way, she could watch for Maggie. And avoid talking to Kyle.
Catch a speeder, save a life, had become the county's most important focus of late as a result of multiple teenage deaths due to excessive speed the previous year. The program was valid. Worthwhile.
And, like everything else, had become about making money. The more speeders they caught, the
And his corn was going to be ready to harvest by the weekend. Which was the other reason he was in the barn that morning--making his way to the combine to make certain that the belts were tight and to adjust and oil the roller chains.
This harvest was critical if he had any hope of becoming financially solvent. He had no family to fall back on. No brothers or parents or in-laws.
He had a grandfather who was dying.
And if he didn't make a profit, they might not even have their home.
The corn had tested at twenty-two and a half percent moisture content the day before. At an average loss of three-quarters of a percent per day, and a minimum kernel damage at nineteen percent moisture, he'd have to be out in the field by Saturday.
He already had a couple of guys set up to help him.
Waiting any longer than Saturday and he'd be looking at an ear droppage of ten to twenty bushels per acre, a potential loss he couldn't afford.
And that was it. There was no way he could afford to be in jail--even for a day--while they proved that Sam had overreacted.
Besides, how could someone have accessed his land and his barn without him knowing it? Zodiac wouldn't allow it. And the storage barn was kept locked.
Kneeling down at the edge of the large cement slab, Kyle glanced over the rest of the chemicals stored there. Insecticide. Pesticide. All on pallets. All in solid containers, no rust or potential leak sites. Though it took time he didn't have, he checked each one against the sheet he'd brought out with him. Nothing else was missing.
He studied the fifty-five-gallon tank as if it could give him an accounting of the missing gas.
And then he noticed it. The cap was firmly closed, but the rubberized seal around the hose insertion area didn't look even. On closer inspection, Kyle started to breathe a little easier. It appeared as though something had been gnawing on the cap. The back side was whittled away. Which meant that the methanol had been exposed to air. For months.
Air facilitated evaporation.
He should have noticed the damaged seal straight off. Should have checked for it. Would have checked if Sam hadn't made him so damned paranoid.
He'd been fretting over jail time just because he'd never before heard of a varmint breaking a seal on a methanol tank.
But he had a bigger problem. A much bigger problem. The past hour had made it abundantly clear to him that Sam had destroyed the trust between them, something that not even their broken engagement or his marriage had done. And trust, once broken, couldn't be fixed.
Watching Maggie Winston any chance she got outside of her regular duties over the next week took time away from Sam's hunt for evidence of a meth lab. But it didn't take her mind off the problem. Or Kyle. Sitting alone in her cruiser, or the Mustang, gave her too much time to think.
She was going to have to talk to him. Sherry Mahon had been part of their lives for fifteen years, and Sam hadn't even known it. Now she did.
What if Kyle had had a child with the woman? And abandoned it?
They needed to talk.
Chandler had built a new high school facility since Kyle, Kelly and she had graduated. The property, along with an initial building fund, had been donated, and the town had resoundingly passed a tax levy. The new facility--just outside city limits--boasted a state-of-the-art sports facility, football field and computer lab.
Sam volunteered herself for the high school dismissal speed-control detail that the county ran every single day. That way, she could watch for Maggie. And avoid talking to Kyle.
Catch a speeder, save a life, had become the county's most important focus of late as a result of multiple teenage deaths due to excessive speed the previous year. The program was valid. Worthwhile.
And, like everything else, had become about making money. The more speeders they caught, the
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