“What is this?”
The FBI Agent looked first at the Homeowner.
Then at the black sludge coating his clothing.
Then at the empty bucket in the HOA President’s hands.
His entire posture sharpened.
“Ma’am.”
She stared.
“Drop the bucket.”
The HOA President blinked.
“What?”
“Set it down.”
“I’m the HOA President.”
The Agent did not react.
“Put the bucket down and step away from it.”
She looked toward the Homeowner.
Then back.
“You don’t understand.”
The Agent’s voice became harder.
“I understand exactly what that container looks like.”
The HOA President slowly lowered the bucket onto the deck.
A second federal investigator immediately stopped her.
“Don’t touch the railing.”
The HOA President’s confidence finally cracked.
“What is happening?”
The Homeowner looked toward the FBI Agent.
“Can somebody tell me what she dumped on me?”
The Agent stepped closer without touching him.
“Sir, paramedics need to rinse you immediately.”
The Homeowner’s pulse accelerated.
“What is it?”
“We don’t know the full concentration yet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
The Agent’s eyes moved toward the bucket.
“But material matching that appearance is part of an active hazardous-waste investigation.”
Silence.
The HOA President looked at the bucket.
Then at the Agent.
“That’s ridiculous.”
The Homeowner stared at her.
The Agent said:
“Where did you get it?”
The HOA President’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The paramedic interrupted.
“Sir, we need you over here.”
The Homeowner looked toward the garden.
His vegetables.
The soil.
The patio.
The sludge dripping from his sleeves.
Then his daughter’s little wooden garden marker stuck beside the flowers.
His stomach turned.
“What about the yard?”
“Don’t worry about the yard yet.”
“My daughter plays here.”
That changed the paramedic’s expression.
“How old?”
“Ten.”
“Was she outside today?”
“No.”
“Any contact with this material recently?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the wrong answer.
The Homeowner heard it himself.
The FBI Agent did too.
“Recently?”
he asked.
The Homeowner looked toward the far corner of his property.
For three months, patches of grass had been dying near the back fence.
Not ordinary brown summer grass.
Gray.
Almost oily.
He had complained to the HOA about a strange odor after rain.
The President told him it was compost from his own garden.
He had believed her explanation just enough to doubt himself.
The Homeowner pointed.
“There.”
The Agent followed his finger.
“What?”
“That soil started dying in May.”
The HOA President interrupted.
“Because he dumps fertilizer everywhere.”
The FBI Agent looked toward her.