Out of Control (5 page)

Dylan remained in character, insulting and superior, insisting his father would be
pissed off about the delay in putting out the fire, that he’d sue everyone within
a hundred mile radius. Blah, blah, blah.

The sheriff, a tall, skinny guy in a cowboy hat and pointy-toed boots, replied, “Unless
you wanna spend a few days in jail, you’d best shut your yapper.”

Dylan stalked away to his SUV with his cell phone to his ear, calling Daddy, I presumed.

Thirty minutes later, a contingent of feds arrived, including two FBI agents and a
youngish balding guy from Homeland Security named Tim Fresh.

Tim was one of those hot and bothered men who get worked into a lather about every
little thing. He was all about the power trip; the sort of man with that perfect blend
of egotism and insanity that makes an especially monstrous dictator. This situation
was big—the fires, the shooter, the possible terrorism angle—and I thought Tim might
have a heart attack, or an orgasm. Maybe both. He didn’t just annoy me. The man was
scary. My comfort level for our homeland’s security dropped to somewhere close to
zero.

Things got especially sticky when he demanded Robichaud hand over his weapon, even
after he’d seen his license. Robichaud refused, it got very heated, and he finally
told Tim, “Fuck off.”

Tim got physical then, and I was astounded when he tried to slug Robichaud. Wow. Big
mistake. In the space of two heartbeats, Tim Fresh was flat on his back, moaning,
while he held his nose, which spurted blood in copious amounts.

I turned to one of the FBI men. “Did you guys come out here to gather information
about the blowouts? Or is watching this tyrant make an ass of himself all you hoped
to accomplish? Because if that’s the case, I’d say your work is done and you need
to hit the road so we can start our own work.”

They both appeared as annoyed as Robichaud. “We were ordered to bring him along. My
apologies. If you’ll just lead us to the dead shooter, we’ll collect what we need,
ask some questions, then get out of your way.”

Without another glance at Tim Fresh, I headed for the burned out Jeep. And Parnell.

They took a little over an hour to finish. Two ambulances arrived in the interim.
One of them gathered up Parnell’s remains and left immediately. A paramedic with the
second ambulance cleaned up Tim’s face and gave him an ice pack, which he held against
his nose, his angry eyes following Robichaud.

The other paramedic dressed Conaway’s wounded arm, which was, as she suspected, just
a graze. As soon as she was bandaged, Tim attempted to question her, but some people
never learn, and before long he demanded she hand over her camera. One of the FBI
guys had already uploaded her photos to his laptop, so she refused. He insisted.

I was about to intervene when I heard her say, “It’s guys like you who give the government
a bad name. One of the reasons I decided to go into journalism was to expose the bureaucratic
bullshit that permeates Washington. I’d bet a thousand bucks you’re related to somebody
who got you this job. You’re as qualified for it as I’m capable of putting out that
fire with some well-aimed spit.”

He had no answer to that, but like all braggadocios types, had to have the last word.
“You’d do well to watch what you say and who you associate with.”

“That goes for you too, Mr. Fresh. What goes around, comes around.” She walked away,
her camera in hand.

A few minutes later, the FBI guys told Tim to get in the car and they were gone. Dylan
left, as well, for which I was grateful. The guy set my teeth on edge.

The paramedics had placed Deke in the ambulance, and after one last teary goodbye,
I stepped back and let them close the doors. I watched the taillights until they disappeared,
then turned toward the fire.

With billowing orange flames and thick, black smoke spreading across the dawn sky,
it was magnificently frightening. Powerful and deadly. I walked toward it, all the
while thinking of Deke. He liked to say he’d picked this job because he was getting
used to Hell, where he was certain to go, being a foul-mouthed, whiskey drinking,
birddog woman chaser.

The closer I got to the fire, the sadder I became. No way was Deke in Hell, if there
really was such a place. He was honest, compassionate, and loyal. He was a good man
and a good friend. He was all of thirty-four, with more than half of his life still
ahead of him. Now, because of somebody’s twisted agenda, he was dead. He’d never marry,
never have kids, never realize his full potential. It was so wrong, and ate at me
in a way that was a little frightening. I don’t consider myself a violent person,
but I had an insane lust for revenge.

When I was within a hundred feet, the heat was so intense the metal grommets of my
jeans began to burn my skin. I stared up at it and made a decision. As soon as we
had it killed, I’d find whoever was behind the blowouts, the one who hired Parnell,
and I’d pay him back. In spades. Whatever he hoped to gain, he’d never have. And whatever
he already had, he’d lose.

From behind me, Robichaud said, “Let’s get to work. Soon as we’ve got it killed, I’ll
buy you a drink.” He came even with me. “Or five.”

I shot him a look. “Is it sick that I think it’s beautiful?”

His gaze moved to the flames. “Probably, but we’re all kinda sick, if the truth be
told. Nobody but weird people would do this.” Still staring up, he grabbed my hand.

“Thanks, Nick.”

He didn’t reply. Just squeezed my hand before he dropped it and walked away. Turning,
I followed.

…

Conaway was dying to stick around and watch us work, which she cajoled me into, despite
how many times I warned her of the danger and of all the things that could go wrong.
I mean, consider what had already happened. She didn’t care. I insisted she stay by
the truck and not bother us.

Several hours later, after we’d unloaded the backhoe and Robichaud was driving it
around the location clearing extraneous debris, the remainder of the equipment from
the Odessa yard showed up, including two water trucks, an Athey Wagon, a corrugated
steel shed, and a small trailer house. Iraan isn’t much more than a spot in the road,
and it was over thirty minutes away. I didn’t want to waste an hour every day driving
back and forth to its one tiny motel.

The crew set up the trailer, connected it to the electrical pole, cranked up the air
conditioner, then hung around a while talking to my hands. I finally had to make them
leave. Whoever said women talk too much never hung out with oilfield guys. They can
shoot the shit for hours.

Conaway offered to cook some breakfast.

“Been away from home long enough to know how to cook eggs?” I asked.

It was a joke, really, but she didn’t take it that way. She stared at me soberly and
replied, “I’d bet the farm you really hate it when people allude to your family, about
you growing up with more money than God.” She nodded toward her video camera. “I bought
that with what I earned cooking eggs on a platform in the middle of the north Atlantic.”
She pointed to a small compact car, parked fifty yards away. “I paid for that with
tips I made serving beer to roughnecks in Alaska. I got up there by looking after
circus animals on a packet from Seattle.” Then she grabbed a fistful of the blue T-shirt
she’d changed into after her arm was dressed. “All of my clothes come from Goodwill.
Close to every penny of my school tuition I got through scholarships and work-study
programs.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Yeah. I can cook fucking eggs.”

“Then go cook some and lose that chip on your shoulder. It’s not very attractive.”

“Jesus, you’re a bitch.”

I smiled. “So are you, which means we’re doomed to be best friends.”

“Maybe.” She pointed at my boots. “But you’ll be my only friend who wears boots that
ugly.”

“They’re steel-toed so my foot won’t get broken when something heavy lands on it.
I have to get them made special because all the ready-made ones are for men.” I pointed
to my fire suit, then my hardhat. “Same with these. My boss likes to gripe about how
expensive it is to have a woman on staff.”

She eyed me curiously. “Why’d you pick a career with no women?”

“I majored in engineering because it interested me and I’m a math geek. I took this
job because it’s amazing and takes care of my latent desire to off myself in a blaze
of glory. As for the no women thing, it just worked out that way, but it’s okay with
me because women tend to piss me off. Men are so much simpler to deal with. What you
see is what you get.”

“Do I piss you off?”

“Not yet, but keep asking me questions and I could get there.”

“Yeah, some best friend you’re gonna be.” She traipsed off toward the trailer house
and I went to help Harley and Cash get the Athey wagon ready.

Cash had scarcely begun moving the boom of the Athey into the fire to retrieve the
twisted metal when a gigantic silver SUV pulled up. Dylan’s daddy, I presumed.

From a spot by the truck where I’d set up a small table and laid out our well specs,
I watched the man walk toward me. He was average height and weight, with ordinary
brown hair and uninspired clothes, but that was where average ended. The man had that
kind of face it’s hard to look away from, it was so handsome. And intriguing. He oozed
sexuality in the way he moved, in the curve of his smile. When he was closer, I realized
he was much younger than I expected. Dylan’s father didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
He’d definitely aged well.

He reached the table and held out his hand to shake mine. “My name’s Cole Fox.”

Fox. Not Sharpe. So he wasn’t Dylan’s father. I let go of his hand. “I’m Blair Drake.
What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for my brother. He called late yesterday and said he was heading for
a well fire close to Iraan, but I haven’t been able to get hold of him since.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“He’s got some…problems, and may be in trouble. It’s very important that I find him.”

“
Who
is your brother?”

“His name is Parnell. Parnell Harkness.”

Chapter Four

The names didn’t match. I frowned.

He guessed my thoughts and said, “We have different fathers.”

My mama raised me to handle awkward situations with grace and aplomb.
Any
awkward situation—even telling a man I was responsible for his brother’s death. I
could hear her soft, gentle drawl deep within my subconscious. “Blair,” she’d say,
sounding like Blayuh, “we do what we must and stand by it with beautiful manners.”
Granted, my three sisters learned Mama’s lessons with much more of an avid interest
and proclivity for living them, but even black sheep get the message if it’s repeated
often enough.

Stepping around the worktable, I briefly explained what happened. I didn’t apologize
for killing his brother. That would be a lie, because I wasn’t the least bit sorry.
Instead, I said, “Your brother was clearly a disturbed man, Mr. Fox, and I’m sorry
for you and your family’s loss.”

His handsome face had the expression of one resigned to the inevitable. He met my
gaze and said solemnly, “Parnell was my only family. Our mother died several years
ago and both of our fathers are long gone.” He ran a hand through his brown hair and
shook his head slowly, turning his gaze toward the fire. “He was always fascinated
with fires, ever since he was a little kid.” Then he looked at me with tears gathering
in his appealing brown eyes. “Where is…where did they take him?”

“Midland.” I leaned against the table. “There’s a good chance the FBI guys will want
to talk to you.”

“I can’t help them. Parnell never told me anything because he knew I’d stop him. Been
like that since we were in boarding school. He got into some trouble, and after that,
if I knew he was up to something I ratted on him to keep him from doing it again.”

“What did he do?”

His sigh said he’d been over this territory many times before. “He and a couple of
buddies built a small bomb and set it off in a trash can. The trash contained some
aerosol cans, which made the explosion much bigger than they anticipated and the fire
burned the dormitory to the ground.” He dabbed at the perspiration beading his perfect
forehead. “The housemother was killed and three students seriously injured.”

I was too shocked to say anything.

“One of his friends was the son of a rich Arab who paid to rebuild the dorm, plus
a new library. The other friend’s daddy gave the school a huge donation. Both of them
got off scot free. Parnell was expelled. They’d have brought charges against him,
except he was too young.” Cole looked at the fire again. “Our mother wasn’t one to
deal with anything, and instead of getting him some help, she enrolled us in a different
school. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ve often wondered if he might have been different
if he’d had help back then.” Once again, he met my gaze. “Guess it doesn’t matter
now.”

I heard a vague tone of censure in his voice and, despite his loss, it made me angry.
His brother was responsible for the deaths of all the men on that Maresco platform,
as well as an entire shrimping crew. He’d tried to kill me. And he killed Deke. My
sympathy was less than nil, and for damn sure I wasn’t going to apologize for killing
a man in self defense. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” I started to walk
away, but stopped when I felt his hand on my arm.

“Look, this isn’t easy, but you should know how sorry I am for what my brother did.”

I glanced over my shoulder at his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes. “I learned
a long time ago not to apologize for other people. You should do the same, Mr. Fox,
because trust me on this, there aren’t enough apologies in the universe to make what
he did okay.” Shrugging off his hand, I walked toward the trailer house and Conaway,
who’d stepped outside and was staring at us in unabashed curiosity.

“Who was that?” she asked as soon as I was close enough.

Watching Cole go to his car, I told her, and she whistled. “Man, talk about awkward.
Was he pissed at you for torching his wacko brother?”

“A little, I think.”

“Can’t blame him, I guess. And I think my brother’s an asswipe. At least he’s not
a pyromaniac murderer.”

We watched Cole drive away and I wondered how a person dealt with something like that.
As angry as I was at Parnell Harkness, I really did feel sorry for Cole, and admit
I thought he was lucky to have a different last name.

…

Over the next few days, we fell into a routine. Cash and Harley traded off hauling
the melted rig out of the fire and working on the clean-up of the location while Robichaud
and I argued about how much nitro we’d need to blow the well when the time came, and
spelled each other digging the water trench around the well. All the trucked in water
constantly shooting into the fire had to go somewhere besides the immediate location.
The resulting mud pit unchecked would make moving our equipment impossible. So we
dug trenches to send the water away from the well, and a large pit where it collected,
was recycled around through the pump, and sprayed back into the fire. We all played
Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who’d operate the jet cutter. I lost, so I spent half
a day cutting through the damaged wellhead with what amounts to an extreme water gun
mounted at the end of the Athey boom.

In between videotaping us, Conaway cooked a lot, which she didn’t seem to mind and
for which I was grateful. Killing a well fire is hot, dirty, hard work, and the notion
of cooking anything more complicated than a microwave dinner seriously sucks. Conaway
turned out some amazing stuff and we ate every meal as if it was our last.

In the afternoons, A.J. came by to see how we were doing. He avoided me and talked
to Robichaud, which would ordinarily stick in my craw and choke me to death, but since
it was A.J., I was glad. The less I had to look at him and remember what an idiot
I’d been, the better.

Under ordinary circumstances, we’d have had a full crew working around the clock to
kill the fire, enough men to work in shifts. As it was, with so many fires and some
of our staff in Indonesia, we were too short-handed. I was in charge and no way did
I want any mistakes made because of exhaustion. We knocked off about eight o’clock
every evening, ate dinner, then broke out the whiskey and the cards.

I think I lost somewhere close to two hundred bucks that week, most of it to Robichaud,
but Conaway also managed to nail me for a good chunk of change. While we played, I
thought a lot about Deke, and got choked up even as we reminisced and laughed about
things he’d said and done.

Along about ten, we’d hit the sack in the trailer, me in one of the tiny bedrooms,
Conaway in the other and the men on inflatable mattresses on the floor of the living
area. Showers were quick and basic. No washing hair or shaving legs. Pretty much a
fast spit, a towel, and a lotta deodorant. Also unable to shave, the men grew the
beginnings of beards. Needless to say, by the end of the sixth day on the site we
were pretty unpleasant.

Except for Robichaud. I swear, sweat and grime and a dark beard only made him hotter.
In all the years I’d worked for Lacrouix and Book, I’d never been sexually attracted
to any of my coworkers, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. The feeling
was strange and I had a hard time dealing with it. Technically, on this job, at least,
I was his supervisor. It’s so not cool to have sex with an employee, but I supposed
there wasn’t any law against fantasizing, so I did that. A lot.

The afternoon of our seventh day on the job, I was driving the backhoe, debating whether
a full of himself guy like Robichaud would be any good in bed, when Dylan drove up.

I saw him say something to Conaway, which appeared to make her extremely angry. She
spat on his shoe and he looked ready to backhand her. I idled the backhoe, jumped
to the ground and took off running. By the time I got there, Dylan was eating dirt,
Cash standing over him, his fists clenched at his sides.

“What happened?”

Conaway was clearly disgusted. “The son of a bitch said I looked like a good fuck.
Can you believe that? Like, what, is that supposed to be romantic? Was I supposed
to say, hell, yeah, I’d love to screw a drunken, overweight, baby-faced goat with
atrocious manners?”

I glanced at Cash. He shrugged. “Asshole deserved it. If I’d had my pistol on me,
he’d be living out the rest of his days wishing he could pee.”

Robichaud and Harley ran up to us and took in the whole situation with one glance.
Harley asked, “Did you kill him?”

“Regrettably, no,” Conaway replied. “He’s still breathing. See?” She pointed to his
back rising and falling.

About that time, a small, black sports car wheeled up the road and stopped in a cloud
of dust. A small man climbed out and walked toward us, his expression furious. He
knelt beside Dylan, rolled him to his back, and inspected his face, which didn’t look
good. His entire mouth was covered in blood and dirt.

The man stood and glared. “What the hell happened to him?”

I knew it had to be Hoyt Sharpe. No one else on earth would care that Dylan was unconscious.
But some childish side of my character made me say, “Who the hell are you to ask?
This is a closed location.”

Boy, if looks could kill. He came close and jabbed a finger into my sternum. “I’m
the one paying for this job. Now tell me why my son’s down there in the dirt.”

I stepped back. “Touch me again and you’ll be joining him.”

Robichaud moved next to me. “Mr. Sharpe?”

“That’s right.” He shifted his gaze to Robichaud. “I take it you’re in charge here?”

“On the contrary. I’m Nicholas Robichaud.” He jerked a thumb in my direction. “This
is Blair Drake, the engineer supervising this kill.” He nodded toward Conaway. “That’s
Leslie Conaway, the woman your son suggested would be a good fuck.” He pointed to
Cash. “That’s Jim Cash, who knocked your son’s teeth down his throat. Mr. Cash doesn’t
like it when men insult women.”

Way to go, Robichaud. I cut him a look, and he raised one dark brow as if to say,
You’re welcome.

Hoyt Sharpe looked ready to burst a blood vessel. He leveled a hard stare at me. “Expect
a call from my lawyer.”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, take your son and get off location.” I didn’t like
him. Or his son.

“Actually, Ms. Drake, you and your crew will be the ones leaving.”

“A.J. is operating this well. He’s the one who hired us, and he’ll have to fire us.”

Hoyt’s expression was just like Dylan’s; superior and smug. “A.J. is no longer operating.
He was arrested this morning and taken to the county jail in Midland for arraignment
in federal court. Traces of explosive materials were found in the trunk of his car,
and he has no alibi for the two days when the land based wells blew out. Hundred dollar
bills with his fingerprints were found among Parnell Harkness’s belongings, indicating
A.J. paid him to blow that offshore well.” He nodded toward the mammoth fire we were
all set to kill first thing in the morning. “This one is likely a true blowout, which
I’d find ironic if it weren’t costing me a fortune.” He glared at me. “So you see,
Ms. Drake, I’m now in charge, and I want you to leave.”

I hid my shock. A.J. was a skeezeball, but no way was he capable of anything so monstrous
as the blowouts.

Or was he? Had I slept with a killer? Suddenly I wanted to take a shower.

I cleared my throat and managed to say in an even voice, “It’s clearly your call,
Mr. Sharpe, but you should know we’re set to blow the fire in the morning. If we leave
now, it will be at least a week before another well control company can get here.
That’s a lot of oil to burn, not to mention the additional cost of hiring a different
company, who’ll have to reinvent the wheel.”

Thankfully, before he was an overprotective, indulgent father, Hoyt Sharpe was an
astute businessman. With scarcely ten seconds of thought, he jerked a nod and said,
“Fine. Do it.” He bent to his son and tried to rouse him, but Dylan was out cold.
I caught a whiff of alcohol and decided his unconscious state was as much because
of the booze as the pop Cash gave him.

Harley stepped forward and grabbed Dylan beneath the arms. “If you’ll get his feet,”
he said to Hoyt, “we can carry him to his truck.”

Looking like he’d be happy to kill all of us, Hoyt grasped Dylan’s ankles and followed
Harley’s lead. Cash ran ahead and opened the back door of the SUV.

From where he still stood beside me, Robichaud said, “You don’t think A.J. did it,
do you?”

I glanced at Conaway, who didn’t know about my previous relationship with A.J. She
had her usual curious look. Oh, hell. “Don’t spread it around, but I was married to
A.J. for a short while, a lifetime ago.”

She pulled a face. “You slept with him? Damn, Blair, why? The guy’s about as hot as
Antarctica.”

“It was several years ago. He hasn’t aged well.” I scowled at her. “Hell. Why am I
defending myself? Don’t tell me you never slept with someone who later disgusted you.”

She cocked a grin at me. “Actually, I’m a virgin.”

“Yeah, and I’m a nun.”

“Ladies, could we focus here?” Robichaud looked very uncomfortable. “I asked if you
think A.J. could be responsible.”

I stared at the SUV. “To tell the honest to God truth, I don’t know. And why ask me?
I’m clearly not terribly astute when it comes to judging character. I was stupid enough
to marry the man, then let him rob me blind.”

Remembering the day he left, when I came home from work and realized he was gone—along
with anything I had that was worth more than two bucks—I shoved my hands into the
pockets of my fire suit and scowled. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d seen
it coming. But I hadn’t. We’d had sex that morning. He’d kissed me goodbye, just like
he did every morning—at least, the ones when I was in town—and said he’d take me out
to dinner that night. I’d left in a fog of newlywed bliss.

And come home to an empty apartment. The bastard didn’t even leave a note. I didn’t
hear from him again until two months later, when I got the divorce papers in the mail.
He’d included a slip of paper that said,
Sorry.