9 Kent HarperKent drove his high-riding state patrol utility vehicle slowly east along the unlined blacktop road. The outside temperature was near freezing and gray clouds covered the sun.
The boxy white SUV’s heater kept the interior warm and he’d tossed his heavy blue winter coat onto the passenger seat.
To his left, a hillside sloped upward from the road. A few straggly pines were scattered across the brown bunch-grass.
On his right, he saw level, well-tended farmland. He rolled by the road leading into the acreage.
A rustic wooden gate barred entry. Tall fence posts rising above the gate supported a two-yard-long white-painted sign. The thick black capitals on it read FLETCHER ORGANIC FARMS.
A temporary sign tacked to the left-hand post featured a graphic of vibrantly green aspara
