Always Watching

over and stared down at him, the gun by his side, his face expressionless.
    Daniel was running toward Joseph. He tackled him.
    The men fought on the ground while I clambered to put my car in gear. Joseph broke away and ran toward the truck, Daniel hard on his heels.
    Without looking back, I stomped on the gas and tore out of the driveway.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
    I drove as fast as I could on the narrow gravel roads, fishtailing around one corner and nearly going over an embankment. When I passed an area of logging, I noticed a large excavator and flashed to an image of Robbie’s excavator at his house down by the septic field—the dirt pile fresh. Now something stuck out as odd. I tried to bring back the scene in my mind. Another image came forward: The lids for the new tanks were covered. From what I knew of septic systems, it was better to leave the lid exposed. And the septic wasn’t even hooked up yet.
    What if they buried him in the tanks?
    When I got to Robbie’s, I ran to the excavator. I was right: The lids for the tanks were under the mound of dirt, but the pipes out to the field were uncovered. One came up beside the mound. I heard something, a muffled sound from the end of a pipe. I focused on the sound, called, “Robbie?” Then I heard the noise again, a faint call for help.
    I yelled down, “Hang in there,” and called 911, shouting directions.
    I grabbed a shovel from the shop and began digging, yanking off my coat and tossing it to the side. It would take forever to move enough dirt to remove the lid. I looked at the excavator. Were the keys still in it?
    I climbed onto the machinery and found the keys still in the ignition. In their haste, they must have forgotten them. I turned on the big machine, the diesel engine loud and drowning out the thudding of my heart. I hoped I still remembered how to run it. My hands sweaty on the levers, I tried to bring the bucket up, but I kept digging it farther into the ground, catching it on a boulder. Finally, I figured out how to lift the bucket, then scoop the dirt and move it to the side. When the hatch was in sight, I shut the machine off and ran over to the tank.
    I began to try to tug and pull at the concrete lid, but it was almost two feet by two feet—and heavy. How was I going to get Robbie out?
    I looked back at the excavator resting near me. Could I use it somehow? I caught sight of a heavy metal chain under the seat, with two hooks on either end. I dragged the chain over to the bucket, attaching one end on the teeth and the other on the hatch. Then I clambered back onto the machine, and jerking and bobbing, my hands still unsteady, I brought the bucket up. I lifted the hatch off, with a whoop of relief, and dropped it to the side. I shut the machine off and ran back to the opening, kneeling as I yelled, “Robbie, you okay?”
    My brother’s voice floated up. “Brew—he’s hurt.”
    “I’m coming down.”
    I lowered myself into the tank, which didn’t look deep, bracing my arms on the sides of the opening, worried I would land on Robbie. But when he saw my legs he said, “I’m over here,” from the other end of the tank. I dropped with a thud and found myself in an area about four by eight. In the dim light from above, I noticed Robbie lying in the corner, his back propped up on the wall of the tank. Brew was lying beside him.
    Now I also realized that Robbie’s shirt was off and he was holding it in a bundle against Brew’s shoulder. The animal’s breathing was rapid, his side rising and falling, air coming out in a chuff.
    Robbie said, “Can you help Brew?” His voice was tight, rushed, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out.
    I crawled over, saying, “Easy, boy,” when Brew whined. I checked his pulse, using the femoral artery on the inside of his thigh. It was weak and thready. The tank was filled with the scent of blood mingling with dog breath and fur. I could also smell Robbie’s body scent, sweat and dirt, diesel from his excavator.
    Still speaking fast, Robbie said, “Brew attacked Joseph. I tried to stop the bleeding.”
    I felt along Brew’s ribs and under his front leg. My hand was covered with warm sticky blood. I examined his gums. Even in the dim light, I could see they were pale gray. I pressed the flat part of my finger against them, checking his capillary refill time.
    Five seconds. Far too slow.
    The bullet had probably hit a small vein and he was bleeding internally. If it had been