Red Helmet (10 page)

“What are you doing?” Song yelled over the cries of the tortured rubber and the thunder of the truck's big engine.

“Duty calls,” the doctor said calmly, as she steered madly through a series of curves going back up the mountain.

“Let me out!”

“No time. If there's going to be shooting, I've got to get there ASAP.”

“But I don't want to go where there's shooting!”

Doctor K gave Song's objection some thought. “That's reasonable,” she said, but she didn't slow down.

Eight

D
octor K's truck flew over the crest of the mountain, skidded around yet another bend, then into a series of curves, bottoming out into a twisting, narrow valley and soaring up another mountain. Despite the wild gyrations, Song didn't get sick, mainly because she was absorbed in her thinking and generally being miserable about Cable's infidelity before they met. It was something of a surprise when at last the doctor hit the brakes and the truck slid to a stop.

“We're here.”

Song peered through the truck's bug-splattered windshield. In a patch of raw brown dirt was a ramshackle, unpainted shack with a sagging porch. Beside it sat a rusty pickup truck, perched atop cinder blocks, and behind it, she saw the boom
of a tow truck sticking above the patched roof. Lawn ornaments decorated the dirt in the front yard, including plaster gnomes, windmills, birdhouses, and a statue of Jesus with hands pressed together, his eyes toward the sky, a resigned expression on his bearded face. There was another vehicle in the yard, a big blue truck with a great deal of complicated machinery on its bed. A plastic pink flamingo was flattened beneath one of its front tires.

On the other side of the road was a black and white police car, the lights flashing blue and red. A heavyset man in a gray-green uniform was leaning against its fender. He had his hands jammed in his pockets and was pondering the house.

“That would be the constable,” Doctor K said. “The town sheriff, you might say, but paid by the coal company. And this would be the Harper place.” She nodded toward the shack. “The Harpers have lived on this mountain for about two hundred years and they're fanatic about it. Bashful should have known better than to drill in Squirrel's yard.”

“Why is he called Squirrel?”

“I have no idea. He's a good old fellow, although a little short-tempered. Used to run a lot of moonshine. Now he has a tow-truck business. His boys, Ford and Chevrolet, have been fighting in some God-forsaken desert somewhere for the army. I think they're due home any day. Be nice if we kept their father alive for them.”

Song noticed three men wearing yellow helmets crouched in a ditch behind the constable's car. “Who are they?”

“Bashful and a couple of his drillers.”

“So now what?”

“That's up to the constable. Would you like to meet him?”

“Does he think I'm a one-hundred-percent snotty little witch?”

“Pure.”

“What?”

“You should say pure, not one hundred percent, if you want to get the mountain vernacular down pat.”

Song rolled her eyes. “Does the constable think I'm a snotty little witch, pure or otherwise?”

“The constable tends to make up his own mind about people and things.”

“Then, yes. I would like to meet him.”

Doctor K led her to the constable. “Constable Petrie, this is Song, Cable's fresh wife.”

The constable scrutinized her, then shook Song's hand and said, “Hidy, little lady. Welcome to Highcoal. How do you like our fair city so far?”

“It's been an illuminating experience,” Song replied.

A warm smile creased the constable's wide, intelligent face. “Illuminating. Haw. That's for sure.”

“What's the situation?” Doctor K asked.

The constable shrugged. “The situation is that Squirrel Harper might have the moral right to chase the drillers out of his yard, but the law's not on his side, and he definitely didn't have the right to shoot at them. The state's on their way. Most likely, knowing Squirrel, there's going to be a shoot-out. That's why I called you.”

“Why do they want to drill here anyway?” Song asked.

The constable clucked his tongue. “Atlas owns the mineral rights for just about the whole county and, legally, they can drill wherever they want. See that fellow over there, the one looking this way with the smirk? That would be Bashful. He owns this drill rig and called the state po-lice. They called me.”

“Have you tried talking to Squirrel?” Song asked.

The constable lifted a bullhorn off the roof of his car and showed it to her. “Until this thing about melted down. No result. Squirrel's pretty stubborn.”

Song gave that some thought. “Negotiating with stubborn males is part of my job. I'm good at it.”

“Well, I'm not averse to being helped, little lady. Hypothetically, how would you negotiate in this case?”

“Can I talk to the boss of the drillers before I answer?”

“Sure. Why not?” The constable aimed the bullhorn at the ditch. “Bashful, get your tailbone over here, boy. Need to talk to you and I mean right now!”

Upon arrival, Bashful proved to be a ferret-faced man with a thin moustache. He studied Song appreciatively, then pushed his yellow helmet back on his head while flashing a toothy grin.

“My! Cable done good for himself, ain't he? You are one hot chick! You get tired of that old coal miner, just remember, well diggers do it deeper'n anybody and straight down too. Ain't that right, boys?” His men crouching in the ditch stared at him, then looked away.

Song ignored his comments and demanded, “Who do you work for?”

Bashful's grin cracked. “What's it to you?”

“Answer her, Bashful,” the constable ordered.

After a moment of hesitation, Bashful shrugged and said, “Atlas Energy. Like everybody else around here.”

“Then Cable is your boss?”

“No way, lady. I'm a contractor. I answer to Atlas headquarters, not your husband.”

“Did Atlas headquarters tell you to drill in this man's front yard?”

Bashful shook his head. “Naw. If Atlas owns the mineral rights, I have the right to drill where I think there's gas. And Atlas owns the mineral rights on this whole mountain.”

“It's a big mountain,” Song pointed out. “Why not go a few hundred yards down the road and drill there?”

“Because I chose to set up here.”

Song put everything together, Bashful's comments, his body language, and the natural expression of villainy that played across his face. “Here's what I think, Mr. Bashful,” she said. “I think you've come here entirely for the purpose of causing trouble for Mr. Harper. What I want to know is—why?”

Bashful's face closed down. “That's none of your business.”

“There's always been bad blood between the Harpers and Bashful's family,” the constable said.

“The Harpers are a low bunch,” Bashful growled. “And one of his boys, that varmit no good for nothing lowlife Ford, did my sister wrong. They were engaged, then he and Chevrolet up and joined the army. Sarah Sue still ain't over it.”

“Last I heard,” the constable said, “Sarah Sue was seeing some man over in Fox Run. Owner of the Dairy Queen, as I recall.”

“She is, but she cried a river over that Harper scamp,” Bashful retorted. “But that's got nothing to do with this. I'm just here after the gas. That's all.”

Song thought a bit, then turned to the constable. “Is there a law about serving notice on private property before drilling?”

The constable nodded. “Law says the owner has to be notified by letter,” he said.

“I done better than that,” Bashful interjected. “I nailed a notice on their door.”

“When?” Song asked.

“Last week. No, two weeks ago.”

Song turned back to the constable. “Is there anything in the law about the number of days notice has to be given before drilling?”

The constable smiled. “Why, now that you mention it, yes it does! Ninety days. Bashful, my boy, she has you there. You're here illegally by about two and a half months!”

“Nobody pays any attention to that stupid law,” Bashful retorted.

“We're paying attention to
it today,” Song said. “Aren't we, Constable?”

“Yes, ma'am, we are. Bashful, consider yourself under arrest unless you move your rig forthwith.”

“You can't arrest me,” Bashful spat. “You're not a real policeman, just a hired hand.”

The constable roughly turned Bashful around and twisted his arms behind him. “I'm real enough until the state gets here.” He got out a pair of handcuffs and started to slap them on Bashful's wrists.

“Wait, Constable,” Song said. “I think he understands the situation better now. Isn't that right, Mr. Bashful?”

The constable let the driller go, and grimacing, Bashful rubbed his arms. “I guess I do,” he sniffed. “But I can't move my truck. Squirrel will shoot me if I try.”

“I think perhaps it's time to talk to Mr. Squirrel again, Constable,” Song said. “We now have a negotiating point.”

The constable nodded appreciatively to Song, then aimed his bullhorn at the house. “Squirrel!” he called. “Turns out Bashful and these old boys have broken the law. They're going to move. So don't shoot them. Come on out on the porch, old son, or give me a sign you hear me and agree not to shoot.”

There was no response. All was quiet in the little house. “He could be asleep,” the constable said, just as the first wails of sirens could be heard in the distance. “Here comes the state SWAT team. Helmets, flak vests, M-16s, the works. They won't even slow down. They'll kick in the doors and go in shooting.”

Song gave that some thought, then said, “All right. We have no choice. Let's go knock on his door.”

The constable frowned. “We?”

“I don't see anybody else who's going to do it.”

He smiled at her, then shook his head. “You got some guts, lady.”

“You saw what happened on 9/11. Give us a challenge, and we New Yorkers do what has to be done.”

The constable lifted the bullhorn again “Squirrel? I got Cable's new wife here. She'd like to say hello. Promise not to shoot, and we'll come on the porch.”

There was a protracted silence, then, through a broken window, a hoarse voice yelled, “Bring her on, then. I'd like a look at her, sure enough.”

“Try not to get me shot, okay?” Song asked, her bravado melting a little. “My father spent a fortune straightening my teeth. I'd hate for him to lose his investment.”

“Squirrel probably won't shoot if he says he's not going to.”

“
Probably?
”

“Life in these hills, ma'am, is a series of probabilities,” the constable said.

Song nodded, then walked beside the constable across the muddy yard. When they stepped up on the porch, the front door swung open and a man in bib overalls stepped out. He had a round, pink face, a white beard, and a big tub belly. He also had crisp blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, and a shotgun with his finger on the trigger.

“Squirrel,” the constable said, “this is Cable's wife. She's from New York City.”

Squirrel looked her over, pulled the door shut behind him, then said, “They sure make 'em pretty in the city of New York, don't they?”

“Thank you,” Song said.

“Not atall. Why, if I was thirty years younger, I'd give old Cable a run for his money.” He chuckled. “What can I do for you today, ma'am?”

“You can let those drillers remove their truck and leave.”

Squirrel cocked his ear at the approaching sirens. “What about the state?”

“I'll explain it's all been a misunderstanding,” the constable said. “Anyhoo, the law's on your side today.”

Squirrel scratched his ear with the barrel of his shotgun. “I'd like to oblige, I really would. But I think I need to shoot Bashful while I got the chance. He's not only trespassed on my land, but he makes a habit of trespassing on other people's land too. Shooting him is about the only way to make him stop.”

Song pretended she hadn't heard the threat, a negotiating technique her father had taught her. “He won't come into your yard again. That's my promise. I'll talk to Cable and make certain of it.”

“Who is it, Daddy?” came a sleepy voice from inside the house. The thin face of a young man appeared in one of the broken windows. He was wearing desert camouflage fatigues and holding a rifle.

“Go back to sleep, Chevrolet,” Squirrel said. “It's all right. The drillers are leaving. We ain't gonna shoot nobody today. Tell Ford too.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Chevrolet said, then moved out of sight.

“I didn't know your boys were back,” the constable said.

“Came in yesterday. When I saw that hateful drill rig in my yard this morning, I thought to myself, here my boys are heroes back from the war and first thing ol' Bashful does is plunk his rig in our front yard. Made me so mad, I had to do something.”

“How did your sons get their names?” Song asked.

I liked Chevies; their maw liked Fords. You know how it is.”

Song nodded, though she feared for her sanity if she
really
knew how it was.

Squirrel lowered the shotgun. “If that truck leaves in the next five minutes,” he said to the constable, “I promise I won't shoot Bashful, at least not today.”

“That's a deal,” the constable said quickly.

“Thank you, Mr. Harper,” Song added.

Squirrel beamed. “Ol' Wire—that would be Cable's daddy, ma'am—surely would be proud to see his son did so good in the woman department. I just hope my boys find somebody like you, sweet lady, and there's the truth of it.” He glared at Bashful, who was peeking over the roof of the constable's car. “I sure am glad Ford got away from that Sarah Sue. She's sorry as a drunk possum. That feller owns the Dairy Queen over at Fox Run is welcome to her.”