“The surveyor?” Miriam asked.
“He is either creating false reports or allowing Rusk to use his name.”
“Where is he?”
Clara pointed to San Espera on the map.
“Two days south.”
“Then someone should speak to him before Rusk does.”
“I will go,” Elias said.
“So will I,” Clara replied.
“No.”
Miriam looked between them.
“Is this how your marriage generally functions?”
“Yes,” they said together.
“Excellent. Argue while packing.”
They departed the following morning.
For two days, Clara and Elias rode through dry country carved by wind. They passed abandoned homesteads, sunken wells, and orchards where dead trees stood in rows like blackened ribs.
At the remains of a farm called Esperanza Grove, Clara stopped beside a collapsed irrigation wheel.
A woman was gathering firewood from the empty house.
Her name was Rosa Medina.
Her family had lost the farm three years earlier.
“The bank said our well was failing,” Rosa told them. “We knew it was not. My husband measured it every morning.”
“Was Orson Pike the surveyor?” Clara asked.
“The paper carried his name.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. Two men from the bank came. They lowered a rope into the well and left after ten minutes.”
“What happened next?”
“The bank demanded the full loan. Gideon Rusk offered to purchase the farm before the court hearing.”
“Who owns it now?”
Rosa pointed toward a sign half-buried in sand.
SUN CREST PRODUCE COMPANY.
Clara had seen the company name in Daniel’s notebook.
“Would you testify?”
Rosa looked toward the abandoned house.
“My husband died believing we lost this place because he failed.”
“He did not fail,” Clara said.
“You do not know that.”
“I know the survey method violated the Arroyo Verde Compact. I know the signature may have been copied. And I know the same thing happened to other families.”
Rosa’s grip tightened around the firewood.
“How many?”
“We do not know yet.”
For years, shame had isolated her more effectively than distance.
Now anger entered the space where shame had lived.
“Find out,” Rosa said. “Then return.”
They reached San Espera after dark.
Orson Pike lived above a closed pharmacy. His door stood open.
Inside, furniture had been overturned. Papers covered the floor. A chair lay broken beside the window.
Elias drew his revolver.
Clara found blood on the edge of a desk.
“Someone reached him first.”
A faint sound came from the rear room.
They discovered Pike inside a wardrobe, bleeding from a cut above his ear. He was a small, elderly man with thick spectacles and hands stained by drafting ink.
“They took my case,” he whispered.
“Who?” Elias asked.
“I did not see their faces.”
“Did Gideon Rusk employ you?”
Pike closed his eyes.
“Once.”
Clara knelt beside him.
“Your signature appears on surveys you never conducted.”
“I know.”
“Did you authorize them?”
“No.”
“Then help us prove it.”
Pike began to shake.
“My wife is in a care home outside Tucson. Rusk pays the fees.”
“Why?”
“Because eight years ago I falsified one report for him.”
The room went quiet.
Pike pressed a cloth against his wound.
“There had been a drought. A real one. The Bellamy ranch was failing, but its deep well remained strong. Rusk wanted the land because a railroad survey was expected nearby. He paid me to report that the well could not support livestock.”
“And after the Bellamys lost the ranch?” Clara asked.
“He kept the report. My signature. My seal. Examples of my handwriting. He said I would conduct future assessments whenever asked.”
“Did you?”
“Three. Then I refused.”
“But the reports continued,” Elias said.
“He did not need me anymore. His clerk copied the old signatures.”
“How many properties?”
“I cannot say.”
“Try.”
Pike looked at Clara.
“The bank created an internal list called the Rain Table. It ranked properties by debt, water access, resale value, and owner vulnerability.”
Clara felt cold despite the heat trapped in the room.
“Owner vulnerability?”
“Recent deaths. Illness. Disputed inheritance. Widows. Families with children. Immigrants unlikely to receive a fair hearing.”
Elias’s voice lowered.
“Where is the Rain Table?”
“Rusk’s freight office receives an updated copy each month. The code is hidden inside ordinary shipping records.”
“What code?”
Pike reached for a pencil.
A fist-sized rock crashed through the window.
A second later, gunfire exploded from the roof across the street.
Elias dragged Clara and Pike to the floor.
The lamp shattered.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Another bullet struck the wall.
Elias fired toward the rooftop flash.
Clara crawled to the rear window and looked into the alley. A wagon loaded with empty medicine crates stood beneath it.
“We can get Pike out the back.”
“He cannot climb.”
“We lower him.”
“With what?”
She pulled a curtain from its rod.