Red Helmet (36 page)

When the operator tapped her on her shoulder to replace her, she sought out Bossman to thank him again, but her light instead fell on Cable, who was alone and apparently waiting for her. He was holding a manila envelope, and his expression was grim.

“I'd like a word if you don't mind. It will take a couple of minutes.” He nodded toward the curtain that covered the opening to the main line. “I've got my jeep. The others can go on out. I'll take you to the manlift after we talk.”

Considering that it was at least conceivable he might be both a thief and a murderer, Song wasn't certain she wanted to be alone with Cable. “Why don't we talk topside?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Needs to be here and now. I'm doubling back. The evening foreman on Three East has the flu. I'm going to fill in for him.”

“Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

“Let's just talk, Song. Okay?”

Song gave it some thought, then nodded agreement. After all, Bossman, Vietnam, and all the black caps on the section knew she and Cable were together. If he had in mind to hurt her, he wouldn't likely do it under those circumstances.

Would he
?

The shift was over and Bossman and the day shift trudged off, their lights flashing until they'd gone through the curtain. Then it was dark, except for the glow of the two helmet lights left behind. Before long, the sound of the mantrip's wheels had turned into a low rumble, and then there was nothing but silence.

Cable sat down on one of the track covers of the continuous miner. “I saw you driving this monster. You did well.”

Song sat beside him, carefully keeping some distance between them. “Cable, what do you want?”

He swept his light around the face area, then pushed his white helmet up with a finger, scratched under it, then pulled it back into place. Finally, he said, “I want to tell you something. I'm grateful for what you did. Your calculations, I mean. When I went back and looked at the numbers, it was like a hammer right between my eyes. Why didn't I think about somebody stealing the coal? It was so obvious.”

Song aimed her light at him. “You're saying you had no part in it?”

Cable's light swung to her. “Do you really think me so low? I may be stupid, Song. No, I take that back. I
am
stupid. But I knew nothing of this. After you left the clinic, I explained to Constable Petrie what the numbers meant. He bumped it up to the state police, who called in the FBI. That's where I've been the last few days—in Charleston, talking to the feds. It turns out there's been an epidemic of high-grade metallurgical coal theft all through the region. They think it's mostly bound for Chinese steel mills, but nobody knows for certain.”

“What's going to happen now?” she asked.

“The feds swooped down on an outfit called Atomic Coal over the weekend. Looks like those fellows have been buying up metallurgical coal from anybody who'd sell it to them, no questions asked. Based on tests, some of their stockpile came from this mine.”

“Who sold it to them?”

“If the feds know, they're not saying, but it had to be somebody who knew all the ins and outs of this mine and was a bit underhanded. My first suspicion, naturally, was Mole.”

Song shook her head. “Not Mole. He'd have never given me the production numbers if it was him.” They fell silent for a moment, then Song said, “You heard about Stanvic.”

Cable took a breath and let it out. “Yeah. I think Stan was the thief, but now he's dead, murdered the constable says. He also thinks there's a strong probability Squirrel Harper was murdered too. But who killed them? That's what we don't know.”

“I bet whoever pushed Square off the road is our killer,” Song proposed.

Cable thought that over, then said, “Look, I don't know how this is all going to end, but I guess it's not up to me. It's up to Constable Petrie and the state police and the FBI. They'll figure it out. It's not what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway. Song, I'm proud of you, working in the mine like you have. And I want you to know I know I was wrong about you. There's a great deal more to you than I ever imagined.” He smiled, and for just a moment, she saw the dimple in his cheek that she'd nearly forgotten existed. “I'd say all that to you even if your father didn't own the mine.”

“Working down here has taught me a little about you too,” she answered. “You run a first-class coal mine, Cable, and I respect and admire you for it.”

“Thank you,” he said.

They fell silent until Cable asked, “Do you remember when we met?”

She smiled. “You picked me up at Times Square. In more ways than one.”

“As soon as I saw you, I thought, here is a woman I'd like to get to know.”

“Well, you were on the rebound. We both were.”

“Those first weeks we were together . . . Song, they were like magic. I want to thank you for them.”

“They
were
magic, Cable, at least for me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was really needed by a man.”

“It was true. I needed you. That's why I asked you to marry me.”

“Cable . . .”

“I know, Song. I wish those days could have gone on forever.” Cable looked down at his boots, his light playing across them while her light played next to his.

Song slid a little closer to him. Her heart was beating so hard, she felt as if it were going to come out of her chest. The truth had finally burst through all her protective layers. She needed this man. She
wanted
this man. It was time to stop denying it.

“Cable,” she said. “Maybe if we . . .”

“No, don't say anything. You're right. I've been a fool. About you, about the mine, about everything. That's why I sent Atlas headquarters my resignation today. I don't deserve to supervise this mine.”

Song's eyes went wide and she flashed her light onto
his face. “You did not!”

Cable was wearing a sad little smile. “It was the right thing to do,” he said, then handed her the manila envelope. “This is the right thing to do too.”

She took the envelope. “What is it?”

“The annulment papers. I signed them, Song. This is a copy. I sent the originals to your lawyer. You're free.”

PART 3
THE DARKEST PLACE

Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,
neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;
Yet man is born unto trouble,
as the sparks fly upward.
—Job 5:6–7

Thirty-Three

5:42 p.m., Tuesday

H
is men were adding thirty more feet of pipe to the well on Highcoal Mountain, which worried Birchbark more than a little. He thought about telling them to stop, to give it a rest, but they were into it now, the work nearly done. Birchbark heard the rattle of an engine and rolled his eyes. Here came Bashful again, his four-wheeler slipping and sliding through the snow. Birchbark stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and looked away. He didn't like his boss much, but what was a well-digger to do? If he wanted to live in Highcoal, Bashful's company was the only one around. Birchbark had dreams, big dreams. He had been saving up, and when he got enough, he was going to apply to the Fox Run First National Bank for a loan. Then he was going to buy his own rig and go into competition with Bashful. With the cruddy old hardware Bashful kept patching up and shoving into the field, Birchbark figured he could give the man a run for his money, especially if he could snag even a little piece of the Atlas contract.

But what he was doing now, Birchbark thought, could jeopardize everything. He needed to stop it. Bashful, dressed in a parka, snow pants, and insulated rubber boots, climbed off the vehicle. He looked like an Antarctic explorer. “Didn't think I was going to make it,” he said as he came up beside Birchbark. “How'd you and the boys get up here?”

“Hello, Bashful,” Birchbark said tiredly. “We came in on one of your bulldozers. See it over there?”

“Yeah, I see it. You know how much diesel that old thing burns? Y'all gonna put me in the poorhouse.”

“It was either that or shut down the rig.”

Birchbark knew Bashful didn't really care about the diesel. He just liked to pull Birchbark's chain. Bashful proved it when he immediately changed the subject. “How deep are we?”

Birchbark kicked at the frozen mud around the rig. “Too deep. We're almost down to the abandoned part of the mine.”

“No gas yet?”

“Not even a wisp.”

“Keep drilling,” Bashful ordered. “There's gas down there, I swan.”

Birchbark kicked his boots against the rig to dislodge the snow from the soles. “There may be gas down there,” he said, “but if there is, I'm certain it's below the mine. And if we go any deeper, we could knock the roof down when we punch through.”

Bashful shrugged. “So what? What about
abandoned
don't you understand?”

“I'm worried about a fire.”

Bashful laughed. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Yes, it does and you know it as well as I do. When it's cold like this, and the air pressure's high, methane starts coming out of the coal in buckets. Might be a lot of it built up inside those old works.”

Bashful slapped his team leader on his back. “You worry too much, son. That old section's closed off with concrete block stoppings. I checked it out with Mole. A fire would have nowhere to go. That's why they're called stoppings.”

“What if Mole tells Cable what we're doing?”

“I gave him a couple hundred dollars not to. Everything's going to be fine. I'll take the responsibility if anything goes wrong, but nothing is.”

Birchbark saw that his team had the new pipe down and were drilling again. “Any second now and we're going to punch through.”

“Good,” Bashful said, rubbing his hands together and stomping his feet to warm them up. “Then maybe you'll stop whining like some little girl. I bet in the next few hours, we'll make one of the biggest strikes on this mountain ever.”

“Maybe so,” Birchbark said, then took off his helmet and looked up at the sky. “Looks like it's clearing.”

Bashful was about to reply when he saw the crew suddenly run away from the rig. Then he felt the earth trembling beneath his feet. “What's happening?” he asked, but it was to empty air because Birchbark had joined his riggers, running for the safety of the bulldozer.

T
HERE WAS A
rumble, and then everything at the face shook. Draw rock fell with a clatter.

At the sound of thunder where it never rained, Cable's head snapped up, his light flashing toward the crosscut ventilation curtain. A moment later, the curtain flapped as if a hard wind had struck it. He got to his feet.

“What was that?” Song asked. She was still sitting on the track cover of the continuous miner and clutching the envelope with the signed annulment papers.

Cable's voice was unnaturally calm, as if he had to restrain himself from yelling. “Do you know how to activate your SCSR?” he asked.

“Of course.” She stood up. “But what—”

“Be ready to put it on when I tell you.”

“Cable?”

“Just do as I say. And for once in your life, don't argue.”

B
UM LOOKED DOWN
the tracks, then cursed. He'd fallen asleep and missed the mantrip out. Now he'd have no choice but to confront the foreman of the evening shift and confess what had happened. The foreman's name was Gibson, nicknamed Hoot. Hoot and Bum had never gotten along. Likely he was going to get a laugh out of Bum's predicament and would probably tell him to either work the shift or sit down until it was over. It was one more frustration on top of frustration that had started when Bum had seen Square Block sneaking around the preparation plant. Bum was still confused about that. Why was Square spying, and who sent him?

Of course, Bum had taken care of the old busybody by pushing him over the mountain, and then he'd taken care of Stanvic too. The next morning, after popping some OxyContin, Bum had dragged himself to work, lest anyone be suspicious why he wasn't there. He'd slept most of the shift and was still hung over. Now, he dug in his pockets and felt three capsules of crystal meth. One would give him plenty of energy to walk out of the mine. He grinned his gap-toothed grin. Shoot, if he took all three, he could fly out!

Bum heard voices coming from the direction of the face. He assumed some miners were doubling back on the evening shift and were taking a break until the rest of the section got there. He started walking toward them and then came upon Cable's jeep. He stopped and listened again. Now he recognized Cable's voice, plus one more. He frowned. It was that girl! What were they doing?

Bum crept closer. To his surprise, he heard them talk about the coal thefts, and how the state police and the FBI were involved. Then he heard them agree that Stanvic was in on it and that his murderer was probably in on it too.

Bum scurried back to his manhole and sat down and tried to figure out what he should do. With the state and the FBI involved, he knew there was a chance they might look at bank statements, his included. He had some vulnerability there. He had not tried to hide the money he'd made on the purloined coal, his bank statements reflecting thousand-dollar
increments every time he made a run for Stanvic. That had been stupid, and now there was nothing he could do to change it. He allowed a meth crystal to melt in his mouth and quickly felt its hot, white energy coursing through his veins. It was just what he needed. His mind went into overdrive.

I have to run
, he thought,
just as far and as fast as I can
. Yes, that was what he would do, withdraw his money and head west, maybe even slip over the border into Mexico, then lose himself somewhere. He thought about Cable's jeep and considered stealing it but dismissed the idea. Cable would hear him and call ahead and Bum would be caught at the bottom. No, the best thing to do was to quietly sneak out of the mine, get to the bank, and get gone.