“Not that I know of, but I only treat livestock. Could be other vets have seen cases.”
Rowan’s phone buzzed with a text from Saxon.
Saxon
Meet me at police station. Have information re: Elway Blackwood.
“Dr. Chen, I need to step out for a bit. Can you call me the moment you have results?”
“Of course. And Mr. Wallace?” She looked up from her testing station, her expression grim. “If someone is deliberately contaminating water sources, they’re not just killing cattle. They’re destroying livelihoods. People’s entire way of life.”
“I know.” Rowan’s voice carried quiet menace. “That’s exactly what I intend to stop.”
He texted Sierra as he walked back to the truck.
Rowan
Where are you?
No answer. He pocketed his phone.
Saxon’s truck was already parked outside the South Eagle Police Station. Rowan spotted him through the glass doors, talking with someone in uniform. Saxon looked more polished than usual in dark jeans and a button-down shirt under his leather jacket, his dark hair freshly cut, and his beard neatly trimmed. Everything about him projected competence and authority—so look who really was diving into the PI world. Interesting.
Detective Michael Martinelli looked like he’d aged five years since Rowan had seen him yesterday after coming out to survey the destruction of Sierra’s house. His white shirt was wrinkled, tie loosened, and dark circles shadowed his eyes as he gestured toward a stack of files on his desk.
“Wallace.” Martinelli stood when Rowan entered, extending a hand. “Saxon here’s been filling me in on what you’ve discovered.”
“And I’ve been learning some interesting things myself.” Saxon nodded toward a chair, his expression grim. “Sit down. This is bigger than we thought.”
Rowan remained standing, too wired to relax. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows, and the smell of old coffee and paper filled the air. “The vet thinks it’s lithium poisoning. She was able to save our cow, but she thinks it’s deliberate. Says there was another case north of here three weeks ago.”
“Tom Hendrick’s place,” Martinelli said, consulting his notes. “We investigated but couldn’t find evidence of deliberate contamination. Figured it was environmental. But now, I’m not so sure.”
“What changed your mind?” Saxon asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“You asking questions about mineral rights and land acquisitions.” Martinelli rubbed his forehead, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. “I started looking at patterns. Sierra’s place, the Hendricks’ spread. Tom’s death. He also had a suspicious fire last month. And all of them have been approached by the same real-estate company in the past six months.”
Saxon leaned forward. “What company?”
“Rocky Mountain Land Development. But that’s where it gets interesting.” Martinelli pulled out a manila folder, spreading documents across his desk. “When I ran the incorporation papers, the company traces back to one corporate umbrella.”
“Which is?”
“Meridian Holdings. It’s a conglomerate. Land. Biotech. Even commercial properties.”
“How many ranchers have they approached?” Saxon asked.
“At least eight that I can confirm. Maybe more.” Martinelli’s expression darkened. “And here’s the kicker—every ranch that’s been hit with ‘accidents’ refused to sell.”
Rowan’s hands clenched into fists. “This is organized corporate terrorism.”
“That’s what I’m starting to think.” Martinelli gestured toward another stack of files. “Problem is, I’m stretched thin right now. Had two teenagers OD this weekend, both in critical condition at Renegade Mercy General Hospital. Parents are demanding answers, and the DEA’s breathing down my neck about drug trafficking.”
Saxon and Rowan exchanged glances. “Any connection between the overdoses and this land grab?” Saxon asked.
“No. It’s just a growing problem. A new drug we can’t identify.” Martinelli’s jaw tightened.
Saxon had pulled out his phone to consult his notes. “Ever heard of a guy named Ralph Rousseau? He’s at the helm of Rocky Mountain Land Development.”
