The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 83

        

Red drains the flask. Tastes like old sink and spray paint.

He leans over. Looks at the dead steer in the pasture. Too fresh to bloat much yet. The morning wind keeps the stench down.

"You need a vet, not a sheriff," Red says to the woman next to him.

It's Lori. Late 60s. Hard as they come on the prairie. Face like baked clay and hands to match. Cuts from the wind cured by the sun.

She rents pasture from Joe and Elma. Or used to anyway. Now the bank owns the land.

Lori's cattle keep busting out of the fence. Hump it across the road and into a wheat field. Happens all the time. Old Man Zed pisses shit when it does. He owns the wheat.

That's where the term "mend fences" originated. Farmers would reconcile after a fence was repaired. That's what Red's heard anyway.

Looks like that won't be happening. Not this time. Probably Zed popped a cow in Lori's pasture for good measure. Not a rational thing to do. Not uncommon, either.

Red digs with his fingers by the steer's ear. Feels for a small, round circle. An entry point. Nothing. Pokes around the other vital areas. Nothing again.

"Unless you keep the Eucharist in there, you put that liquor away when you're on my property," Lori says.

Red shrugs. Finishes it off. Stuffs it in his back pocket.

"And unless you have a reason I'm here, I'll be leaving your property," he says.

Lori points to the far side of the pasture. Her finger traces the outline of a new power substation.

"Ever since that substation went in on county land, my cows give me less milk. The cattle get sick," Lori says. Kicks at the dirt. "There's stray voltage."

"Stray voltage?" Red says.

"An electric current running underground. It happened in Minnesota once. Wabasha County, near where my sons live in Rochester," Lori says. Lets out a loud breath through gritted teeth. "Do something about it."

Red rubs his jaw. Lets his thoughts drift off to Mary.

"Not much I can do," he says.

"But it's county land. I don't understand how you're so helpless," Lori says. "This stray voltage isn't just making my herd sick anymore. It's killing them. Isn't that worth something?"

Red ignores the comment. Surveys the prairie. As flat and rough as a bastard file. The fall weather scrubs the terrain a grayish yellow.

His eyes fall to the family cemetery. It rests on the other side of the fence. Been there since the 1800s. It rises five feet above everything else. A plateau of tombstones.

It's a testament to generations of deep tilling and overgrazing. Better practices in more recent times managed to keep the dead from spilling out onto the fields.

"I don't know," Red says.

"You don't know?" Lori says. "Maybe this stray voltage is getting to you."

"Maybe it is," Red says. Snaps back into focus. "Call your insurance company, Lori. Call the USDA RMA. File the claim. Explain the situation. If things are how you say, they'll take the lead on it."

Red starts back for his truck. Lori follows.

"My family's been running cattle and milking cows for more than 100 years. What if this drives me out of the business?" Lori says as Red gets into his truck.

"Then you better pray they find oil on your property," Red says. Shuts the door.

He drives until Lori is out of sight. Pulls over, opens a beer, closes his eyes and drinks.

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