Mr. Fahrenheit by T. Michael Martin Page A

a mean old gun? he’d asked.
    Sheriff , she’d said, you’re being sexist.
    Papaw had guffawed, and after Ellie explained that her (amiably redneck-y) dad sometimes took her deer hunting, Papaw said, Well, I’ll be.
    You’ll be what? Ellie replied, grinning her firecracker grin.
    I’ll be hopin’ to see you again real soon. You’re what I call ‘a classy, old-time country gal.’ Don’t ever change that, sweetie. Benjamin, you hang on to this one.
    â€œI’m sorry, Sheriff,” Ellie said now. “I sort of kidnapped your grandson earlier this evening. He was helping me with calculus.”
    â€œOut here?”
    â€œWell, you know. Calculus gets old. We were just cruising.”
    The term seemed to amuse Papaw. His eyebrows went up. “‘Cruising’? Did’ja make an appearance at the sock hop, too? How ’bout the malt shop?”
    From the backseat of the car, way too enthusiastically, Zeeko went, “Hahahahahaha!”
    â€œHowdy to you, too, Zeeko,” Papaw said, grinning a little.
    â€œIs anybody hurt?” Benji asked.
    â€œNo. Well, nothin’ too serious bad. That pilot—somebody said he’s a surgeon from over ’n Indianapolis—he got the plane set down pretty good. Took out some of Deedan’s livestock, though. That fella’s raisin’ holy hell about his ‘mutilated cattle.’ Word from the ambulance is the pilot’ll be fine. Worst-case prognosis, he’s got a concussion. He was talkin’ some nonsense when they pulled him out.”
    Ellie glanced at Benji, obviously thinking the same thing he was: What kind of “nonsense,” exactly?
    â€œHow’d the crash happen?” Ellie asked.
    â€œI would reckon that it was because the doctor had a copilot by the name of Jack Daniels. Found booze spilt all over the cockpit. Don’t tell anyone that, mind,” he added, and then sighed. “Though God knows it’ll probably get around this town, anyhow.”
    â€œSheriff!” Wally called.
    Benji looked over. A civilian had come through the sawhorses on the Bedford Falls side of the blockade and wasstanding in the middle of all the emergency vehicles. That happened around accidents all the time; Papaw and the guys at the station called them rubberneckers or lookie-loos.
    Benji’s eyes widened a little when he realized who this lookie-loo was. Shaun Spinney.
    Ignoring Wally’s commands to get back into his own car, Spinney was staring at the plane crash, and, weirdly, he was also waving one arm over his head.
    â€œYoung fella,” Papaw called, “you’ll want to get back in your vehicle right now .”
    Spinney looked over momentarily, nodded, then resumed his waving.
    Except Benji realized he wasn’t actually waving : He had a phone in his hand, and he was trying to get a better camera angle.
    Papaw had the same realization. “Mary and Joseph above,” he muttered. “Why would anyone want to film . . . ” He clenched his fists, wrinkled knuckles reddening. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out tobacco—something he only used when he was angry—and put a pinch in his mouth.
    Then he marched toward Spinney, purposeful and furious. There was none of the usual good-ol’-boy friendliness in the way he moved; he didn’t look like the public version of Sheriff Robert Lightman. He looked like Papaw , and a pissed-off Papaw at that.
    â€œYoung man, I done asked you once,” he said. “Now, let me see your little toy.”
    Spinney looked startled to find Papaw beside him. “Huh?”
    â€œGive me that damn phone.”
    â€œWhy?” Spinnie smirked. “Are phones illegal on public roads, Sheriff?”
    â€œBy God, you’re right: They’re still legal . . . although giveCongress a little time and I’ll bet they’ll take care of that. But this is an emergency scene, and that