Moreno ignored her and walked to the patrol car. Mercer asked what condition had prompted the shutoff. I explained the complaints and the readings, careful to distinguish what I had measured from what I merely suspected. His notebook came out when I mentioned possible contamination. He asked whether I'd issued a notice. I told him I was preparing one and had already notified the after-hours duty number.
"People are saying you did it over money," he said.
"People are going to say a lot of things tonight. The test isn't about money."
He studied me for a moment. "Do you have the test records?"
"Inside the pump house. I can show you without touching the valves."
Diane stepped between us. "Why are we indulging this? His family used to own the land around here. That does not make him the authority over Cedar Hollow."
I pointed toward the orange survey monument almost hidden in the grass beyond the ornamental fence. "See that marker? The fence is eleven feet inside my deeded line. The tower, the well, and this building were never sold."
"The board approved that fence," she said.
"The board can't vote my land into becoming yours."
She came close enough that I could smell her perfume over the damp gravel. Her smile had vanished. "Don't you lecture me about approval, Kenneth. You've been squatting on this community's goodwill for years. You think because your grandfather built something, nobody else can decide what happens to it."
"On land he kept," I answered.
"You're going to regret this."
It was quiet enough that I heard it clearly. Mercer heard it too. He looked up from the notebook, but before he could speak, Moreno returned from the car and handed my card back.
"Certification checks out," Moreno said. "County parcel map shows private ownership. The permit lists Mr. Wilson as operator."
For the first time, Diane had to swallow before speaking.
Mercer addressed her directly. "Ma'am, the ownership dispute is civil. If the permitted operator believes the system may be unsafe, we're not ordering him to open a water valve. The county and state water people handle that."
"A hundred and eighty-six households have no water," she said.
"I understand. Call the water authority's emergency line and follow their instructions."
"Some of our residents are elderly."
"Then make arrangements to help them."
I watched her chin rise. Half an inch, perhaps. It was the tiny movement she made when she had to revise her plan without letting anyone know. Around us the crowd murmured. I heard a woman ask why the police weren't arresting me. Another voice said the tower had been there long before the neighborhood. Then a man behind the fence shouted, "So he can just shut us off whenever he feels like it?"
The question traveled through the crowd more quickly than Moreno's explanation had. In a moment, the officers were closing notebooks and Diane was repeating the only sentence she needed people to remember: "Our families have no running water."