Rancho Javelina

By Bill Coates

Fiction: Humor, mystery
Ray Canin leads a quiet existence editing the feature page for a community newspaper in Casa Grande, Arizona. That changes when he has to take over the cop beat. One day he's interviewing a plumber crossing the country on a pogo stick. The next day he's looking into a pair of murders. As Canin would learn, all roads lead to Rancho Javelina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Coates
• Release date: Sep 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005158132

Bill Coates

Bill Coates has freelanced and worked on staff for numerous newspapers in Arizona for more than 30 years. He lives in Phoenix with his wife, Cindy, and Maggie the dog.

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Chapter One

Tuesday February 17, 2015

Destination Rancho Javelina. Rachel Flores had the wheel. It was attached to a five-year-old Subaru Forester. Just the thing for desert roads. Roads deeply grooved by pickups churning up rain-soaked sludge. Grooves now kiln-dried in the desert sun. Nothing Rachel’s Subaru couldn’t handle. My Prius? Something might have gotten knocked off the underside. Something that would make the car stop working.

So I just sat back and enjoyed the desert. You might think: What the hell, Ray Canin, you live in Arizona. You see desert all the time. What’s the big deal?

But the desert isn’t all that close anymore. It’s been pushed outward by subdivisions and strip malls. Farms and farms abandoned to become little more than dirt and weeds.

So out here, in the real desert, saguaros saluted the barrel cactus. The barrel cactus, stubby fireplugs of the desert, kept to themselves. Armies of cholla cactus, spiny and painful, guarded the hillsides. The brittlebush looked like dead weeds. They were just waiting for a spot of rain, just enough to spring to life and explode with crazed yellow blossoms.

What do you think? Here?

Rachel had stopped at a road that intersected with ours. I looked at the directions. First turn off.

I think so.

That’ll have to do.

She turned off. A tall gate came into view about a mile later. An assembly of rusty wrought iron beneath a high arch. Welded to the arch was the name: Rancho Javelina.

Rachel drove under it.

Kate Harbreen was just inside the gate, waiting to greet us.

Rachel parked and I got out, notebook and phone recorder in hand.

Thirty miles from nowhere and you found us! Harbreen said. I recognized her right away. She was a person who spoke in exclamation marks.

Well, you couldn’t hide from Google Earth, I said.

She laughed. It was complimentary laugh.

Fair enough! I’m Kathryn Harbreen. You can call me Kate.

Ray Canin, features editor for the Daily Post in Casa Grande, not far from nowhere.

Rachel stepped out of the car, slinging two camera bodies on her shoulder. She extended a hand.

Rachel Flores.

Let me guess, you’re the photographer! Harbreen said.

Rachel smiled.

I spotted you on Google Earth, Rachel said. Just browsing. I saw a spot labeled javelina sanctuary. I told Ray about it and he rang you up.

Well, thanks for coming. I’m hoping your story can enlighten people about these beautiful creatures, javelina.

I forced a grin. Javelina have been described as many things. Rarely as beautiful.

They get pushed out of their desert habitat by development, Harbreen continued. They end up roaming neighborhoods, like a gang of drifters. They uproot entire gardens. So we step in. Javelina intervention. We bring them here. It’s not cheap to run. We rely on donations, and that’s been a challenge, lately anyway.

Harbreen herself was a lifelong desert dweller, tough and leathery from unremitting sunshine. Her jeans had faded to a pale dusty blue. Her khaki shirt had long sleeves, rolled up to reveal hands toughened by hard labor and lower arms bulked by the same.

She showed a similar bulk throughout. She was, in fact, a large woman. At six feet, rollerblade large. A ballcap kept in check hair that looked like an unbundled bale of hay. Her shoes looked like Keds sneakers. Blue canvas.

Behind her was a doublewide mobile home. The door said: Office. The door on a nearby mobile home said: Private. Harbreen’s residence, no doubt. An old pickup was parked between them.

I’ll give you the tour, Harbreen said.

That’s what we’re here for. I thought it. Didn’t say it. Not the time for snarky.

Great, I said.

We headed left from the office trailer. A thick cable ran from a utility pole to a standalone box.

You get power out here.

We used to run on generators. But developers are keen about a planned freeway. A few miles east. The power company wants to sell them electrons. I don’t want the goddamn people, but I’ll take the electricity. We need it for the trailers and the lights for the pens.

Uh huh.

Hell, we even have land lines. Got big old Ma Bell phones and the internet. No cellphone reception.

That’s different.

Well, that’s Rancho Javelina for you. Come on. I’ll show you.

She led us to a pen enclosed by a chain-link fence, maybe five foot from top to bottom. The pen was square, maybe twenty, twenty-five feet to a side. A thatched ramada in the center offered summer shade. But this was February. No shade required. So the javelina clustered around the pen’s southside and took in the sun. There were five in all. Two stood. They didn’t move. They could have been stuffed by a taxidermist. Three lay on their side, breathing heavily and irregularly.

Javelina hospice, Harbreen said. These are the old guys – and gals. With their final days in sight, we place them together. They don’t get bullied in here. And they’re too frail to bully others.

I nodded. I never thought I’d have feelings for a javelina. They’re not cuddly cute. But these poor animals were a sad lot. If such a thing as an animating spirit existed, they didn’t have it. They just hung around waiting for the last thread of life to unravel.

How long do javelina live? I asked.

Maybe ten years in the wild. They can live up to twenty in here.

Twenty in captivity?

Harbreen shook her head. She frowned. She made wrinkles you couldn’t iron out.

We don’t use that word. Javelina here aren’t captives. They’re guests. And we treat them like guests, not farm animals to be exploited for their milk or meat.

Just as well, I thought. I couldn’t see a big market for javelina milk.

Again, I nodded. A noncommittal nod. Maybe I’d use in captivity in my writeup. Maybe not. I wasn’t going to argue about it.

We followed Harbreen along a dirt path. Javelina heaven. Or Javelina hell.

Harbreen stopped at the next pen.

This is our patient ward, she said.

My mind was elsewhere, focused on the path. It disappeared at the crest of hill some two hundred feet away. I’m sure it didn’t stop there. All along the path were more pens. Some were the size of small pastures – without the grass. Each pen held a dozen or more javelina. They shuffled around and made grunting noises.

How many javelina, uh, reside here, I asked.

At the moment, sixty-three.

How did … all this come about?

I ran an animal sanctuary in Tucson, with my husband. He liked to go birding. I stayed home with the mangled bunnies, injured coyotes and homeless javelina. I learned he did more than watch birds. He had a few chicks on the side. We divorced, sold the house and I used my half of the settlement to start this. We’re still friends. He’ll come out and lend a hand on occasion.

When did you divorce?

Oh, more than twenty years ago.

Why javelina? Why here?

I was told to shut down my Tucson shelter. Too small. Too smelly for the neighbors. And yet the javelina needed a place. And I couldn’t just release them back into the wild. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Why’s that?

They’re very territorial. The new kids on the block simply get beat up. Mauled by the packs already there. Often killed.

Packs?

They form extended family groups, known as squadrons. And they’re prepared to attack, en masse, any creature they deem a threat. Especially to protect the young. And, yeah, their harem.

Newcomers are a threat?

So they’re perceived … Anyway, I bought a 145-acre tract out here. The javelina living spaces take up about forty-five. We’re always expanding.

I took notes. Rachel snapped pictures as Harbreen opened the gate and entered the hospice pen. The ambulatory patients grunted and shuffled up to Harbreen.

And how are we today Lizzie? And Frida. And Johnny.

She gave each a treat from her pocket. Rachel entered the pen and circled round to get Harbreen full on. Harbreen bent over the two javelina lying in the sun. She didn’t give them treats, just a few gentle strokes on the back of the neck.

I know. Food’s not important any more, is it, Prudence, Alex? We’re just trying to stay comfortable, aren’t we?

Harbreen gave each another pat and left the pen. Rachel was right behind her.

Everybody has a name? I asked.

Yes, of course. They’re individuals. They have their own personalities. Take Prudence. Very shy. And like the song says, she won’t come out to play.

What’s wrong with Prudence? Why is she …. in hospice care.

Old age. Liver. Kidneys. Just aren’t up to the job anymore.

I wrote it down. I see. Um, do you know everybody’s name and who’s who?

Of course. She answered as though it were obvious. Why’d I bother even asking. Harbreen headed to the next pen. We followed. It was the patient ward. The javelina here weren’t dying, just injured or feverish. They just needed a quiet place to recover. They got a special diet of prickly pear cactus, lettuce and peanut-butter sandwiches, as I learned later.

An older woman – older than me anyway – was in the pen, filling troughs with the stuff. She emptied a pair of buckets. Javelina lined up at the troughs like third graders at the school cafeteria. She scolded one.

Hey, Marcus, not so pushy, she said.

The woman gave Marcus a shove. He grunted but otherwise backed down. The woman was striking, for her age. The beauty she had as a youth had not faded completely. A bushel of white hair looked more Afro than permed. It somehow failed to dislodge the straw hat holding it down. She was slight. Not the type, it seemed, to be pushing something as thick as a javelina around. But maybe you just didn’t mess with her.

She smiled a lot. Out of place for somebody reduced to slopping Javelina to supplement their Social Security. That was my impression. Harbreen disabused me.

Evelyn is one of our volunteers. We couldn’t keep Rancho Javelina open without them. Evelyn does wonders for the javelina in need of mending. A Florence Nightingale for peccaries. Aside from me, she’s about the only person they trust.

Evelyn looked up. She smiled, a bigger smile, and waved. Rachel took a picture. She lowered the camera and asked Harbreen for Evelyn’s full name.

Evelyn Chamberlain. Retired, a winter visitor from Wisconsin.

I wrote it down.

We followed Harbreen to the next pen.

This is our nursery.

I wrote that down. Standing at the fence, I saw big javelinas and babies. Some of the adults just stood around. Some rolled around in the dirt. Some wandered about on legs better suited for cheap furniture.

And the legs carried a big load – thick bodies with a low center of gravity and wrapped in a hirsute of salt and pepper bristles. Their coat had a lighter shade around the neck. Hence, their more formal name: collared peccaries. Their wedge-shaped heads ended in snouts unmistakably piggish. But the javelina weren’t pigs. Old World pigs and the New World peccaries took separate paths on the family tree long ago. Like people and chimps.

The javelina here didn’t look any bigger than medium-sized dogs, if the dogs were juiced on steroids.

Half of them rested in the shade of a mesquite tree. They were piled atop one another like fish in a trawler hold. Adults and babies. One baby was up, but not alone. This was a newbie, no bigger than a bloated chihuahua. The baby stayed under the mother, like a shadow at high noon. When the mother moved, the baby moved.

Kind of clingy, I noted.

Little Caesar, Harbreen said. He’s just a week old. His mother protects him from coyotes, bobcats and even owls. Well, she would in the wild. She’s Cleopatra, by the way.

Uh huh.

I heard tires on gravel. A pickup climbed the path leading from the office, kicking up dust in its wake. It was the truck I saw by the mobile homes. It skidded to a stop next to Harbreen, The dust kept going and enveloped us like a brown fog.

A heavyset man in a blue shirt and khaki pants jumped out. Mid-thirties maybe. Or early forties. Blond. Bad skin. Sunglasses. A pair of shovels rested on the wall of the truck bed.

Katy, I’m going up to check the water pipe on the big boy compound. The water pressure’s dropped. Might be a leak somewhere.

Harbreen smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was grimace smile. One thing more thing to worry about, apparently. I didn’t have to ask.

"Any good news on donations, Jerry?

He shook his head.

Slow, he said I can’t explain it. Last year or so, they began drying up. I’ll reach out to the old donors again. Don’t you worry about it. Jerry shook his head. I just think javelina have been given a bad rap. People find them unpleasant. Shit, the little ones are kinda cute, though.

And Jerry is … I asked.

He’s our bookkeeper, IT and maintenance guy. All-round help. He lives on site.

Last name?

O’Connor. Jerry O’Connor.

Cute, aren’t they? Jerry said again. He swung open the gate, entered the family pen and picked up Little Caesar, pushing Cleopatra aside with a leg. He carried the baby toward the gate, showing it off. He did look kind of cuddly, for a javelina.

Jerry, Harbreen said, like a parent scolding a child.

Cleopatra grunted. She raised a lip, showing a set of canines that could puncture a lung.

Jerry, don’t fuck with her.

A peccary the next pen over spoke up. Loudly. In protest.

Or Big Caesar, Harbreen said.

I stole a glance. A healthy specimen with tusks was crashing against the gate to his pen. The father, Harbreen said, for my benefit. He’s very upset. I just hoped the gate held.

Jerry, she repeated. O’Connor made a face. He seemed a slow learner.

Sure, he said.

Cleopatra charged. O’Connor stepped back.

Shit, he said.

He fumbled Little Caesar, dropping the baby. Little Caesar hit dirt with a squeal, then scrambled to his mother. She went for Jerry as he slipped out the gate and slammed it shut. Cleopatra rammed it and pushed her nose through the chain-link. All I could see were teeth and saliva.

Sorry, kid, O’Connor said. Accident.

He turned to Harbreen.

The little guys like me, you know.

I warned you. It’s not a petting zoo.

Sorry, Kate.

No more, or you know …

It won’t happen again, O’Connor said.

I scanned the pens. Bristly animals grunting and rolling in the dirt. Stone-age cutlery for teeth. I had to agree. Not a petting zoo.

I wrote the story the next day. It ran as a Sunday feature, under the headline: Javelina rescue center rises to challenge of beasty residents

By Ray Canin, Staff Writer; Photography by Rachel Flores

Katy Harbreen never expected a rose garden when she set out to provide a desert home for rescued javelina.

"I’ve spent more than 20 years helping javelina displaced by development and injury. We hit some snags on donations, but I’m not stopping now."

Harbreen, 57, started Rancho Javelina with her share of a divorce settlement. She bought 145 acres of desert habitat, well out of reach of developers – for the moment. Her charges include babies in the javelina nursery all the way up to the old and infirm knocking at the pearly gates.

And so it went. Another feature, another day. And, you know, I would have forgotten all about Rancho Javelina – but for the body in Eloy.

Chapter Two

Monday August 10, 2015 (Six Months later)

I rang up Junie Archibald. It was near quitting time. I had put her off for last. I needed her to clarify a notice she’d sent regarding her parents’ seventy-fifth wedding anniversary.

Hi, Mrs. Archibald?

Who are you?

Ray Canin. I’m the features editor at the Daily Post. I had some questions about the notice you sent, you know, about …

It’s all right there.

I just wanted to check on a few things.

OK, check on them already.

Your parents were married at St. Anthony of Padua Catholic Church? I asked.

Yes, by Father Larry.

Larry who?

Just Father Larry. Everybody knows him as Father Larry.

I guess that includes me.

What?

Um, I’m looking at your email. You’ve got ‘Mr. and Mrs. Frank Van Johnson.’

Oh, you can read.

With one eye closed.

You’re not funny.

Apparently not. Um, if I could get Mrs. Van Johnson’s first name … you see, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Somebody,’ that’s the old style. We use first and last …

They’re old. That’s the style they like.

I held the phone away for a moment. I glanced over at Marian. That’s Marian Bonneville. She covers Casa Grande City Hall and handles general assignment news stories. I rolled my eyes in the direction of the phone. She smiled. Shrugged. It was a signal. It meant: Can’t help you.

I went back to the phone.

It’s just that’s how we do it nowadays.

OK, OK. It’s Dolores. Dolores Van Johnson.

Thanks. I typed in the name on my computer screen, saved and closed out the file.

Junie Archibald continued: It has to run on Thursday, you know, before their anniversary. Seventy-fifth anniversary. They’re ninety-nine, you know. Both of them. Same birthday.

It kind of depends on space. The newspaper isn’t like the Internet. It has so many pages. And each page can hold so much.

"Frankly, I don’t get the newspaper. Why would I? There’s nothing in it for me. So if you could just mail me