A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Well, it’s not good.” Pete smiled.

  You couldn’t help but like the ebullient, ever-curious Jake, even if he did go three months between haircuts and beard trims.

  Two men stepped down from the high trailer rig as yet another SUV climbed the hill. When the Silver State employees spied their boss’s Chevy Blazer, the company’s silver wave graphic on the side, neither smiled.

  Twinkie Bosun, plastic straw clenched between his teeth, was the rig driver. He and Bunny Matthews, his sidekick, lived just outside Reno. While they weren’t Red Rock residents, because they serviced and repaired Silver State pumps hither and yon many people recognized them.

  Many also knew Oliver Hitchens, earmuffs on, “Silver State” embroidered parka, big boots, as he stepped from the Tahoe—a company vehicle and a good choice for the off-roading he sometimes had to do.

  “Prick.” Twinkie whispered with a smile.

  The other men standing nearby smiled.

  Pete stretched out his gloved hand. “Mr. Hitchens. Glad you’re here.”

  Looking at the fountain, Oliver gave the deputy a perfunctory handshake, then slipped and slid up to the pump.

  “Bunny, don’t stand there like the useless asshole you are. Cut the water,” Oliver barked.

  Dutifully, Bunny jumped down into the recessed area and wrenched the pump wheel, which was parallel to the ground. It, too, was painted light blue.

  “Frozen.” Now soaked himself, he shouted above the gushing water.

  Oliver motioned for Twinkie to lower himself down. Grunting with effort, the two men finally shut off the line.

  Pete could clearly see a three-inch piece of one-inch-diameter pipe. Pipe bomb, he thought, saying nothing, but with his gaze he directed Bunny’s eyes to it. Pete looked away as Oliver fast approached the pump now that the water was turned off. Oliver hadn’t wanted to get wet. Bending over, Bunny shook as though to shed the water, but he scooped up the metal fragment and slipped it into his pocket. Twinkie, seeing this, engaged Oliver.

  “Won’t take us too long to unscrew these plates if you’ve got a little propane torch, you know, a small one. Everything’s frozen, Mr. Hitchens. First job is to unfreeze them.”

  “I’m not in the habit of carrying torches.” Oliver sniffed.

  Twinkie knew that, and said with relish, “Then you and Bunny will have to hold the big tank steady on the rig while I melt the ice.”

  Bunny smiled beatifically as unhappiness spread across Oliver’s features.

  Pete, also savoring the moment, spoke. “A lot of people will thank you fellows. I’m one of them.”

  Oliver’s lips twitched, a remnant of his grimace.

  As Pete made his way back to the police vehicle, Bunny followed. He looked over his shoulder to see Oliver struggling to get back up on the flatbed. With a wink, Bunny slipped Pete the pipe.

  Jake yelled in the background, “Twinkie, I’m parking my fat ass in your cab until you need me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Twinkie yelled back over the wind and the rumble of the bulldozer, which Jake wisely had not turned off.

  The way back down proved more treacherous than the way up, but four-wheel-drive is worth the money. At the slope’s bottom, Pete headed south down Red Rock Road. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Pete dug in his pocket and pulled out the pipe piece. He put it on the dash with the two shreds of paper and the triangular scrap of red ripstop.

  “And what did you see?” asked Pete.

  Lonnie leaned forward, peering through the windshield into a whiteout. “The same old, same old. Oliver Hitchens can fart through his mouth. Twinkie and Bunny want to get the job done. Jake—you know, I don’t know exactly why Jake showed up. Reckon someone from Silver State called him because they figured they couldn’t get another piece of equipment up here fast enough to lift off the pump. Given subsequent water loss and the storm, they might not have made it up there. Pump’s not really that big. Jake can do it.”

  “Look in the pipe. Is it rusted or corroded?”

  Lonnie picked up the cold one-inch pipe and held it up toward the road in front of him like a spyglass. “Clean.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s amazing what damage a lead pipe bomb can do,” Lonnie noted.

  Pete nodded in acknowledgment. “Three ninety-five will be a nightmare.”

  On one side of the four-lane highway was Washoe County, Nevada. On the other side was California. The Peterson Mountains were the true geographic barrier with less than a mile to the California state line.

  “Maybe the state will shut it down.”

  “Not until an eighteen-wheeler rolls over.” Pete snorted.

  “Right.” Lonnie shifted. “Did you expect this would happen to Silver State?”

  “Sooner or later. If you remember your classes from school, the history of the West is the story of water.”

  “I remember. That and the Comstock Lode. God, all my history professor ever talked about was the Comstock.” Lonnie flopped back into his seat.

  “Here’s the thing, pardner. Someone blew up a pump. Someone cunning enough to pick a perfectly rotten day for cover. A great many people without water will be inconvenienced. Right now, Silver State’s phones are ringing, people are wanting information, some are irate, some will ask for a portion of their bill to be waived. If Twinkie and Bunny can fit up the new pump in this weather, with not much light, it might be five hours before they have water. Could have been a day or two if they hadn’t responded as fast as they did, so let’s give Silver State credit. So who benefits from this sabotage?”

  “Whoever wants to scare people about water.”

  “Yeah, and maybe even a few more folks will shake loose their water rights. A few ranchers outside of Las Vegas were paid seven point nine million dollars for their water rights. It’s happening here, too. Maybe the prices being paid aren’t as high, but Reno is greedy for water. Blowing up a pump, cutting off water, that sure underscores the issue.”

  “Better someone blew up Oliver Hitchens.”

  Pete laughed as he slowed for a nasty curve, a huge sheet of snow sliding down the east side of the Peterson Mountains as though aiming straight for him. “Someone thinks they will benefit from this.”

  Just at that moment, passing them in the opposite direction was an SUV driven by Craig Locke, another Silver State employee, the man responsible for securing water rights. Pete saw the vehicle but couldn’t make out the driver since the snow required him to keep his eyes on the road.

  “Maybe it’s a politician,” Lonnie said. “You know, someone who creates a big problem so he can solve it, then look like a hero.”

  “You know, Squirt, I’m starting to think you’re growing up. That’s a possibility. Silver State is no doubt greasing some palms; that’s the great American way.”

  “Or how about a nutcase who’s so pissed off at the fat cats he vandalizes corporate property to let off steam?”

  “There’s been speculation that the drought, which finally seems to be ending after five long years, was a conspiracy to limit the water supply. I don’t know about that, but there is a logic to cutting off water for three hours a day during a shortage. Scare people while preaching about the shortage as environmental conservation.”

  Lonnie hadn’t thought of that. “Oh.”

  “One thing I promise you, Lonnie—well, two things—this is the beginning of a water war. And Jeep Reed is right: They’re bastards.”

  “You forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “We’re right in the middle of it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three weeks before Pump 19 blew, the newspaper carried a small squib announcing that Horseshoe Estates was finally approved by the Regional Planning Board.

  It was to be an upscale development with a thousand homes. The developer, Wade Properties, Ltd., had undergone an arduous process involving lawyers, hydrographers, and surveyors, as well as expensive studies on traffic and the project’s wildlife impact.
The planning board was duly impressed with the thoroughness of Wade Properties, Ltd.

  The developer had learned from observing the Matera Ridge project, which failed to gain approval in 2009. When the county initially approved zoning for 632 homes in Steamboat Hills without requiring the developer to disclose his source of water, residents along Mount Rose Highway protested loudly and effectively. Approval was then withdrawn.

  Wade Properties had demonstrated to the board’s satisfaction that there was sufficient water available for the homes in Horseshoe Estates. Silver State Resource Management, the firm selected to supply that water, produced compelling evidence. The president of SSRM, Darryl Johnson, provided proof they had acquired the necessary water rights, plus they could renew the water supply with new methods for capturing runoff from what little rain there was, as well as tapping into the snowcaps. This latter contingency plan was attacked as specious by two conservation groups, Washoe Water Rights and Friends of Sierra County, but SSRM still carried the day. Not only had its red-headed president given a presentation, so had Craig Locke, Director of Acquisitions. Also present at the board meeting were Oliver Hitchens and Elizabeth McCormick, although Oliver and Liz did not testify.

  Bitterly disappointed at what they felt were skewed facts, the two conservation groups stormed out of the meeting. They’d lost this fight but vowed to lose no more. Their joint press release to the media was ignored by the local papers as were most of the zoning proceedings.

  The only part of their statement that was printed: “If only there were more Jeep Reeds.” SSRM countered this with, “While we greatly respect Miss Reed’s business acumen and charitable activities, we think she is mistaken in her quest to control usage of water underneath Red Rock Valley.”

  Since the late 1950s, Jeep had been buying up or optioning water rights in the Valley. Often she paid an annual rent with an option to buy. Her fear was that the aquifer underneath Red Rock Valley would be diverted to Reno and thereby harm cattlemen and ranchers, of which she was one.

  Her statements over the years, always brief, focused on sustainable growth and preserving the precious resources of Washoe County.

  She had not been asked to comment on the Horseshoe Estates zoning approval.

  As it happened, there appeared to be little interest in Wade Properties’ victory because the news was dominated by the economic collapse of Nevada’s glamorous neighbor, California. Of all the stories in the news, this one certainly concerned Nevada residents the most. They knew they’d be dealing with the fallout.

  In fact, Wade Properties’ zoning approval went unmentioned on all the local TV broadcasts.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The first weekend in December, a massive blizzard blanketed not just Nevada but much of the western half of the country. The eastern edge of this weather monster snowed on Denver as its western edge dumped on Reno. Airports shut down; roadways were deserted. Schools and churches, supermarkets and banks, all closed. Hospitals did what they could, but the best hope for anyone suffering a heart attack was prayer. Ambulances couldn’t negotiate roads any better than other vehicles. The storm was so severe that the plows just couldn’t keep up with the snowfall. The milelong drive up to Jeep’s house remained buried under two and a half feet of snow. Enrique left the back doors of the stable and sheds open so the horses and cattle could come and go as they pleased. At night he closed the horses in, for the temperatures dropped below zero out in the valley. The cattle, with heavier coats and more fat, could come and go at will.

  Basques are tough people. Salaberry is a Basque name. Enrique Salaberry displayed the clean-cut features and the taut small body characteristic of the tough Basque people. Basques played jai alai, a game for lightning reflexes, better than any other people in the world. The Basques—small-statured men who were light on their feet and had incredible hand-eye coordination—dazzled in those few places like south Florida where jai alai was played. Take your eyes off the goatskin ball hurtling at you at 180 mph and you could die. A few players had.

  Jeep assumed Enrique’s grandparents’ generation had fled Spain’s tyrannical dictator, Franco. Century after century, Basque hopes for independence were tabled or brutally crushed. The Spanish Civil War and its aftermath, much of it still buried in Spanish and Basque hearts today, pulverized any hopes of self-governance.

  Enrique, however, cared little about his genetic heritage. This is hardly uncommon even among those who live in their genetic culture. His world was Jeep’s world. She and Dorothy “Dot” Jocham, her deceased partner, were the only parents he had known. Enrique was a Nevada cowboy through and through—with exceptional building and mechanical skills. The ferocious storm was testing them.

  The path between his house and the stables was packed-down snow. He’d shoveled it twice already but the continued snowfall convinced him this was futile. So he fired up the 500hp ATV and ran back and forth over the path, packing it down. Then he did the same for a walkway between his house and the main house, another to the cattle sheds, and yet another to the first barn built on the ranch, the one undergoing reconstruction.

  Power stayed on. A godsend.

  Stock came first. Throwing hay, checking water troughs, and chopping ice consumed the dark day. Low, dark clouds made it feel like six o’clock in the evening. Winter made every moment of light precious, each day another minute lost until the solstice in two weeks.

  He walked into the property’s original barn, snow still falling. A huge gas tank fueled a heat unit that looked like an open-ended torpedo. The open end flickered red, blue, and white with the gas flame. The flame roared—you couldn’t hear yourself think—but it warmed a large area.

  “Shit!” Enrique exclaimed as he pushed open the doors so he could get in the ATV.

  One of the workers on Jeep’s barn restoration had left the heat unit on. Its gas tank was enormous so it kept going. The other farmhands, all trapped in their houses off Wings Ranch, probably wouldn’t get to work for a good two days. Enrique figured it would be at least that long before Red Rock Road, then Dry Valley Road, and finally Dixie Lane would be plowed.

  Still cursing, he walked over to cut off the unit, stopped, and looked down at his feet. The ground was unfrozen around the heater. That part of the aisle and the back end of a former stall near the gas looked relatively workable. He and the boys had been digging out the stalls and center aisle. They wanted to go down three feet to lay eight-inch-diameter ceramic drainage pipes. Jeep’s intent was to restore the exterior of the stable to its pristine form, as well as re-create the interior as it would have looked in the 1880s, with beautiful brass fittings. However, the barn would still be modern and functional in terms of drainage, plumbing, electricity, and footing. Drainage pipes would run under each stall. Each stall would have a pipe on a downward grade to the center aisle. Two large drains in the aisle and a large underground ceramic pipe running the length of the barn would carry waste to a septic tank. The manure would be handled as it had been since before Xenophon, by picking out the stalls.

  He plucked a spade hanging on a hook on the wall. Tools hung neatly in a row. This would be changed later when they’d hang in a small storage room off the aisle. People or horses could back into tools not tucked safely away. At this stage of construction there was only the metal sheet exterior covering the original clapboard, which were planks hauled by rail from California, off-loaded at Reno Junction, then carried here by mule wagons. To have a clapboard barn screamed filthy rich. The Ford brothers put their money in the front window. Jeep, rich herself, proved more circumspect. Her argument was that Wings Ranch should be what it was in the beginning. Nevada was owed its heritage.

  Enrique nudged the soil with the spade tip. The stall had already been dug down two feet. The soil gave way easily. He pulled off his old blanket-lined jacket and started digging. There wasn’t much else he could do. The stock would come in the other barns at nightfall. In these conditions, animals could tell better than the humans when it truly was nigh
t. He’d have to run over the paths with the ATV again but that was it. Like Jeep, Enrique couldn’t tolerate being idle. He also hated being indoors, regardless of the weather.

  “Might as well get one stall down to three feet,” he thought, tapping the unfrozen part of the center aisle.

  If he dug out this stall, he’d have a better idea of how difficult it would be to lay the pipe. These things always sounded easy in conversation or drawn on paper, but then you got into it.

  In ten minutes he’d worked up a good sweat. Thirty more and he’d reached a foot down into what would be the front end of the stall. He moved carefully, piling up the sand and small stones mixed in with orovado soil. He turned around to make sure he wasn’t too close to the blazing heater. Its loud whoosh and roar irritated him.

  As he finished the next section, he started to jam down into the dirt with the spade point, but stopped midair. Laying down the spade he knelt to look closer at something in the hole. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing. A tiny LED light hung on the ATV key chain. He ran to the other end of the barn to get it.

  The subzero fluorescent overhead lights had allowed him to work, but now he needed something brighter. Plucking the key out, he ran back, knelt down, his face close to the sandy loam. He pressed the button—the breast of buxom woman—on the key fob Carlotta had bought him. The tiny white light shone on a piece of bone.

  Enrique had seen plenty of cattle, sheep, horse, and coyote bones. This was human, he was certain. Slipping the fob in his pocket, he dug some more, very carefully. An arm revealed itself, then part of a rib cage, and finally, a hand wearing a tarnished silver ring, which was black against the bony white third digit, and gave an eerie contrast.

  He jammed the spade into the dirt right outside the stall. He opened the wide old doors enough to get the ATV out. Firing up the bright red Honda, he sped to the main house.

  “Mom!”