Page 30 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

30.

She wasn’t hard to spot.

A determined look on her face, the blond woman was driving a thirty-six-inch black-and-orange Ditch Witch trencher north to south along the front of Coyne Farm, which was about a mile from downtown Hinowah.

In a transparent rain slicker over blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, she was pushing the implement as fast as it could go, dirt flying out and joining its muddy kin.

She was on her third trench and the interconnected ditches were well placed. They would divert floodwaters to the south, around much of the farm. Another line of defense were hundreds of sandbags. Three workers wearing similar gear to hers were filling and stacking the bags.

How much water would these defenses divert? Hard to say, but not enough to stop the farm from getting some damage, he assessed. Maybe a lot. The flood would have the full snowpack melt of the mountains within it.

But that wasn’t Colter Shaw’s concern. The only question he had to answer here was: When had the work begun?

After six-fifteen that morning, when the explosion sheared off the top of the levee?

Or before? Because, like an inside trader, she knew what was coming?

Vultures…

She had dug one trench at the gate but had laid planks to make a six-foot access bridge.

Coyne was looking his way. She nodded into the yard and Shaw accelerated over the bridge, parked and swung down the kickstand. He got off the bike. Coyne clicked the trencher to neutral, climbed off and walked to him.

Her pretty, weather-tanned face studied him carefully. There was a hint of suspicion. “Can I help you?”

He offered one of Dorion’s cards and gave his name. “I’m working with Mayor Tolifson and a disaster response company.” He nodded to the trenches. “You heard about the levee, I see. The mayor’s issued an evacuation order.”

“I know. And that there are criminal penalties for not complying.” She had a pleasant alto voice. “I’m staying. You going to arrest me?”

“I’m not a law officer.”

“A threat like the levee? Either you run or you fight it.” A nod at the Ditch Witch. “That tell you my decision? I need a rest stop.” She shouted words in Spanish to a worker nearby. He hurried to the machine and continued trenching.

Halfway to the house, she looked over her shoulder at Colter. “You coming?”

Inside, the residence was surprising. Not the least rustic. It was filled with lace throws, overstuffed velvet furniture with carved feet on the legs, tasseled lampshades and Pre-Raphaelite paintings and old photos in ornate frames. Oriental rugs, stained glass. The smell of rose petals and cloves mixed with that of fertilizer.

Seeing his reaction, Coyne offered, “Mining town bordello chic, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

She tugged off the rain slicker and hung it on a peg by the door. She left her jacket on.

Coyne looked him over. “Shaw Incident Services. Fairfax, Virginia. You’re a long way from home.”

She’d glanced only quickly at the card but managed to retain the information.

“It’s my sister’s company. I’m just helping out.”

“You live around here?”

“Family does.”

“Not you?”

“I travel a lot.”

“Be right back.” She vanished into a hallway. A few minutes later she returned. “I heard three to four feet of the levee came down. How’s the rest of it holding?”

Did the delivery of the question implicate or absolve her?

Hard to say.

“Not great. Situational erosion’s whittling it down.”

She frowned.

He explained, “Term of art. It means acute, unexpected erosion. In this case, it’s because of a sudden snowmelt about fifty miles from here.”

“?‘Situational.’ Hm. Too long for Wordle. You know when the river will crest?”

“Probably not for a day or two.”

“Shit. Is the cavalry here?”

“In a way, yes. Army engineers. But the county and state have their hands full with Fort Pleasant.”

“I need a beer. You?”

“Not with two wheels on mud and asphalt.”

“A cautious man.”

“At times. Coffee if there’s some made.”

“There’s a pot. Been there for a couple hours.”

“It’s still coffee.”

“How do you like it?”

“With a little milk if you’ve got any.”

“I have a cow. She’s in the barn. Because of the flood I got her to the top floor, which was a feat, I will tell you. So, yeah, I have milk.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and he stepped to the hewn-wood mantel above a fieldstone fireplace. There sat scores of photographs in ornate silver frames. He scanned them. A happy family working in the fields and at afternoon Sunday suppers. Parents, Ezra and his wife, their daughters, Annie being the eldest. As the photos grew clearer—higher definition—the population in the pictures aged and then thinned.

And then they stopped altogether. No photos in the past few years.

But several—from ten years ago—were of her in uniform with other soldiers. Army.

There was nothing about being in the service that necessarily made you more familiar with explosives than anyone else. But it did give you better access to knowledge about things that went bang.

And access to ex-military personnel who wanted to keep playing with the tools of the trade for fun and profit after they commissioned out.

Mercenaries.

Coyne returned with a bottle of Anchor Steam and a mug of coffee. Shaw nodded thanks. It wasn’t too burnt.

She chugged half the bottle.

Shaw said, “Impressive what you’ve done.” Glancing toward the front of the property. “And in next to no time.”

Trying to pin her down.

“I started the minute we heard.”

Sidestepped that one, he thought.

“You were lucky to have a trencher.”

Wondering if she’d rented it recently.

“Farming is all about heavy equipment.” She gave a sour laugh. “You know what it’s like—digging the trenches? It’s like a reverse moat around a castle—and the water’s the marauding barbarian.”

“And planks at the gate? Your drawbridge.”

Another long swallow from the bottle. “I always thought that levee ought to be replaced. California’s the land of special referendums on the ballot. People can vote for what they want. Get a concrete one put in. I talked to my congresspeople. They enthusiastically said, ‘My goodness, you’re right. That levee’s a disaster just waiting to happen. We’ll get back to you.’?” A bitter laugh escaped her throat. “I’ve been checking messages for four years. But zip.” She grew somber. “I heard a family died. Their SUV got washed away.”

“No, we saved them.”

“Thank God for that.”

The relief of someone who just learned she had not committed murder? Or was the reference just a way to brush up her patina of innocence?

In the reward business you learned to read people, and Colter Shaw was talented at it. But Annie Coyne remained a mystery.

And how had she known they were in an SUV.

She asked, “You know disaster response. So how do the trenches look?”

His only experience digging one was prior to a gunfight. Like a foxhole in combat. He said, “Never relied on one to stop a flood. And nobody has any idea how deep the water’ll be by the time it gets out here.”

“How much of the town has evacuated?”

“It’s about ninety-five percent. They’ve gone to Hanover College.”

Coyne was nodding. “Good choice. If that goes, well, it’s time to start looking for the Ark.”

“You know if Gerard Redding’s evacuated the mine?”

“Hope so, for his workers’ sake. As for him, don’t much care. His name’s not on my dance card.” She said this sourly.

Shaw lifted a brow.

“We don’t see eye to eye, Redding and me.”

“That right?”

She sighed. “Water. Goddamn water. It’s the new gold, Colter. The earth is mostly water but nearly all of it might as well be Play-Doh. The water that counts? It’s vanishing. In Africa, the Middle East, South Asia…There, if it’s not droughted away, it’s being weaponized. A warlord who controls the water controls the people.” Her gaze grew dark. “And I have a feeling it’s the same thing here. Gerrymandering around water sources to keep the voters under a politician’s thumb.”

Shaw had not heard of this, but it was right up his father’s alley—a man who never met a government conspiracy he didn’t brake for.

“Fresh water in California.” A shake of her head. “It’s like playing a dozen games of chess at the same time. All the Salad Bowl farms—from Sacramento down to Bakersfield—fighting for every drop. Small ones like me and huge agra-com operations. Back in the old days they fought over land and claims and gold. Now we fight over water.” She scoffed. “Of course, now I’ve got to worry about too much of it.”

“If the land flooded, what would it do to the farm?”

“I’d lose a year’s crop. It would wash away topsoil and the seeds I just sowed. And the water would unbalance the nitrogen and phosphorus. But worse than that, I’d lose all my research fields. Here, take a look.”

She walked toward her desk and he followed her. On it were hundreds of sheets of paper, folders, books, magazines. Though it seemed highly unlikely to be the case, he took the opportunity to see if there was any evidence she was preparing for the flood ahead of time, proving she was behind the sabotage. But it was all scientific in nature, financial spreadsheets, technical data.

Besides, she didn’t seem like the sort of woman who was foolish enough to leave evidence lying around.

“Hobby of mine. I farm because I love it, and it’s a family legacy. But I stumbled on something a few years ago and it’s become a passion. Phytoremediation.”

“I’m not generally passionate about things I can’t pronounce.”

A smile eased onto her face as their eyes met. “You’re funny, Colter. Phytoremediation is the science of removing toxins and chemicals and other crap from the soil through plants. Certain types of vegetation absorb the bad stuff, break the poisons apart and dispose of them in the air. Stuff that’ll kill us and animals doesn’t affect them at all. And what they off-gas isn’t bad either.”

Interesting idea. He’d have to mention it to Dorion. Because of her job she was acutely aware of the effects of chemical spills. The process Coyne was describing would not be an immediate solution to an incident, but maybe plants could be sown in affected soil to mitigate long-term pollution.

He told her this.

“That’s exactly what it’s about. I think it’s the wave of the future.”

She stretched and stifled a yawn.

Shaw gave it one more shot. “Must’ve gotten up early for the trenching.”

Coyne gave him a look. Did she suspect something?

“Started digging the minute we heard. About seven or so. But you’re talking to a farm girl, sir.”

Shaw cocked his head.

“If we’re still in bed at five a.m., that’s known as sleeping in. Now, I got some ditches to dig. You best scoot.”