“A lot of copper in these hills?” Pitt asked.
“Not enough to last long. Most of the copper and gold mines shut down decades ago. Attracted a lot of dirt diggers in their day, but not too many folks got rich from it,” he replied, shaking his head. Looking Pitt in the eye, he asked, “What can I do for you today?”
“I’d like to know about your stock of ruthenium.”
“Ruthenium?” he asked, looking at Pitt queerly. “You with that big fellow that was just in here?”
“No,” Pitt replied. He recalled the odd behavior of the man in the brown suit and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity.
“That’s peculiar,” the man said, eyeing Pitt with suspicion. “That other fellow was from the Natural Resources Ministry in Ottawa. Here checking our supply and sources of ruthenium. Odd that it was the only mineral he was interested in and you come walking in asking about the same thing.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“John Booth, I believe he said. A bit of an odd bird, I thought. Now, what’s your interest, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt generally explained Lisa Lane’s research at George Washington University and ruthenium’s role in her scientific work. He neglected to disclose the magnitude of her recent discovery or the recent explosion at the lab.
“Yes, I recall sending a sample to that lab a week or two ago. We don’t get too many requests for ruthenium, just a few public research labs and the occasional high-tech company. With the price going so crazy, not too many folks can afford to dabble with it anymore. Of course, that price spike has made us a nice profit when we do get an order,” he smiled with a wink. “I just wish we had a source to replenish our inventory.”
“You don’t have an ongoing supplier?”
“Oh heavens no, not in years. I reckon my stock will be depleted before long. We used to get some from a platinum mine in eastern Ontario, but the ore they are pulling out now isn’t showing any meaningful content. No, as I was telling Mr. Booth, most of our ruthenium stocks came from the Inuit.”
“They mined it up north?” Pitt asked.
“Apparently so. I pulled the acquisition records for Mr. Booth,” he said, pointing to an ancient leather-bound journal sitting at the other end of the counter. “The stuff was acquired over a hundred years ago. There’s a detailed accounting in the logbook. The Inuit referred to it as the ‘Black Kobluna’ or some such. We always called it the Adelaide sample, as the Inuit were from a camp on the Adelaide Peninsula in the Arctic.”
“So that’s the extent of the Canadian supply of ruthenium?”
“As far as I know. But nobody knows if there is more to the Inuit source. It all surfaced so long ago. The story was that the Inuit were afraid to return to the island where they obtained it because of a dark curse. Something about bad spirits and the source being tainted by death and insanity, or similar mumbo jumbo. A tall tale of the north, I guess.”
“I’ve found that local legends often have some basis in fact,” Pitt replied. “Do you mind if I take a look at the journal?”
“Not at all.” The old geologist ambled down to the end of the counter and returned with the book, flipping through its pages as he walked. A scowl suddenly crossed his face as his skin turned beet red.
“Santa María!” he hissed. “He tore out the record, right in front of me. There was a hand-drawn map of the mine location right there. Now it’s gone.”
The old man slammed the book to the counter while turning an angry eye toward the door. Pitt could see where two pages had been neatly torn from the journal.
“I’d venture to say that your Mr. Booth isn’t who he said he was,” Pitt said.
“I should have suspected something when he didn’t know what a sluice box was,” the man grumbled. “I don’t know why he had to deface our records. He could have just asked for a copy.”
Pitt knew the reason why. Mr. Booth didn’t want anyone else to know the source of the Inuit ruthenium. He slid the journal around and read a partial entry ahead of the missing pages.
October 22, 1917.
Horace Tucker of the Churchill Trading Company consigned following unrefined ore quantities:
5 tons of copper ore
12 tons of lead ore
2 tons of zinc
¼ ton of ruthenium (Adelaide “Black Kobluna”)
Source and assayer comments to follow.
“That was the only Inuit shipment you have received?” Pitt asked.
The old man nodded. “That was it. The missing pages indicated that the mineral had actually been obtained decades earlier. That trading post in Churchill couldn’t find a market for the stuff until Tucker brought a sample in with some minerals from a mine in Manitoba.”
“Any chance the Churchill Trading Company records still exist? ”
“Pretty doubtful. They went out of business back around 1960. I met Tucker a few years later in Winnipeg shortly before he died. I remember him telling me how the old log trading post in Churchill had burned to the ground. I would imagine their trading records were destroyed in the fire.”
“I guess that’s the end of the line, then. I’m sorry about the theft of your data, but thank you for sharing what you know.”
“Hold on a second,” the man replied. He stepped over and opened the thick door to the ancient safe. He rummaged around a wooden bin inside, then turned and tossed something to Pitt. It was a tiny smooth stone, silvery white in color.
“Black Kobluna?” he asked.
“A sample on the house, so that you know what we’ve been talking about.”
Pitt reached across the counter and shook hands with the geologist, thanking him for his time.
“One more thing,” the old man said, as Pitt strolled toward the door. “You run into that Booth fellow, you be sure and tell him I’m coming after him with a pickax if I ever see him again.”
The afternoon had turned colder under the cast of an approaching front, and Pitt waited anxiously for the car heater to warm up as he exited the Co-op’s parking lot. Grabbing a quick lunch at a café in Blind River, he drove back through the winding mountain road toward the airport, contemplating the Inuit ruthenium tale. The ore had to have come from the Arctic, presumably near the Inuit camp at Adelaide. How had the Inuit, with primitive technology, mined the ruthenium? Were there still significant reserves in place? And who was John Booth and why was he interested in the Inuit ore?
The questions brought no answers as he wound through the scenic hills, braking as he pulled up behind a slower-moving RV. Reaching a straight stretch in the road, the RV driver pulled to the shoulder and waved for Pitt to pass. Pitt stomped on the accelerator and sped past the motor home, which he noted had a Colorado license plate.
The road snaked sharply ahead of him, the two lanes carving into the edge of a rocky mountainside that tumbled down to a river below. Twisting through a tight bend, Pitt could see the roadway a mile ahead, where the highway nearly doubled back on a parallel facing. He caught a glimpse of a white sedan parked in a turnout. It was the same vehicle that John Booth had climbed into at the Co-op. Pitt lost sight of the car as the roadway bent and twisted once more.
Rounding through a tight S curve, the road straightened again for a short stretch. To Pitt’s left, the hillside plunged in a steep drop-off, falling several hundred feet to the river below. As his rental car gained speed on the straightaway, Pitt heard a faint pop, like the burst of a distant Fourth of July firework. He glanced ahead but noticed nothing, as a deep rumble followed the initial noise. A movement caught his eye, and he looked up to see a house-sized boulder sliding down the mountainside above him. The huge rock was falling in a perfect trajectory to intersect with Pitt’s car two hundred feet down the road.
Pitt instantly stomped on the brakes, mashing the pedal to the floorboard. The tires chirped and shimmied in protest, but the car’s antilock braking system kept the vehicle from skidding uncontrollably. In the brief seconds Pitt waited for the car to stop, he obs
erved that a full landslide was now under way. In addition to the huge rock, a whole wall of rocks and gravel was chasing the boulder down the mountainside. With seemingly half of the mountain barreling toward him, he knew he would have only one chance to escape.
His quick braking slowed the car just enough to prevent him from being flattened by the first mammoth boulder. The huge rock hit the asphalt just twenty feet in front of him, splintering into several smaller sections. Most of the rock pieces continued their downhill slide, smashing through the guardrail and tumbling down the steep precipice toward the river. A few large chunks died on the road, soon to be buried by the impeding landslide that followed.
Pitt’s car skidded into one of the chunks, a flattened slab of granite that instantly stopped his momentum. Though it mashed the bumper and grille, the car’s mechanics were undamaged. Inside, Pitt felt only a strong jolt, but it was enough to inflate the air bag, which ballooned in front of his chest as the vehicle bounced backward. Pitt’s quick senses had beaten the air bag, though. He had already jammed the automatic transmission in to reverse and stomped on the accelerator at the moment of impact.
The rear tires smoked as they spun wildly before gripping the pavement and propelling the car backward. Pitt gripped the steering wheel and held it steady as the car tried to fishtail from the sudden rearward torque before settling on a stable line. The transmission screamed beneath Pitt’s feet as the low-ratio reverse gear fought to maintain revolutions with the floored engine. Pitt glanced up the hill to see the sliding mass of rocks and gravel already descending upon him. The landslide had spread across a wide line, extending well to his rear. He quickly realized there was no way he could outrun it.
Like a slate-colored tidal wave, the sliding wall of rock cascaded onto the roadway, spilling first a few yards in front of him. For an instant, it appeared as if the speeding car might slip past the deluge, but then a separate cluster of boulders broke free and crashed to the road behind him. Pitt could do nothing but hold on as the car barreled into the moving layer of rocks with a screeching peal of twisted metal.
The car scraped over a large boulder, snapping off the rear axle and sending one of the drive wheels careening down the hill. Pitt was thrown back into his seat as a secondary wall of falling rocks smashed into the passenger side, lifting the car up and over onto its roof. Pitt was flung to his left, his head striking a side air bag as it inflated. Seconds later, he was jarred again to the side again, his head banging through the deflating air bag until striking the driver’s-side window. A great battering roar filled his ears as the car was pummeled across the road, slamming hard to a sudden stop. Inside, Pitt teetered on the brink of consciousness as the sound of rushing gravel surrounded him. His vision went blurry as he was buffeted in his seat, he vaguely felt a warm wetness on his face, and then all feeling vanished as he dropped into a silent void of blackness.
38
Pitt knew that he was alive from the jackhammer-like pounding that wracked his skull. His auditory senses kicked in next, detecting a rhythmic scraping sound nearby. He wriggled his fingers, finding a heavy resistance but confirming that they were still wrapped around the steering wheel of the rental car. Though his legs moved freely, his head, chest, and arms felt completely restricted. The realization that he couldn’t breathe suddenly struck his foggy mind and he struggled to free himself, but he felt like a bound mummy. He slowly pried open the lids of his eyes, which felt as if they had been glued shut, but all he saw was black.
The grip on his lungs grew tighter and he thrashed harder, finally freeing a hand and forearm from their mysterious hold. He heard a voice and a frantic scuffling sound, then a scraping sensation skinned his face as a burst of light blinded his eyes. He sucked in a breath of dusty air, then squinted through a thick surrounding haze. Staring back at him was a pair of affectionate brown eyes, affixed to the tiny head of a black-and-tan dachshund. Most confusing to Pitt, the dog appeared to be standing upside down. The dog inched closer, sniffing Pitt’s exposed face before licking him on the nose.
“Out of the way, Mauser, he’s still alive,” came a man’s voice from nearby.
A pair of thick hands appeared and scooped away more of the dirt and gravel that had buried Pitt’s head and torso. Pitt’s arms finally broke free, and he helped push the small mountain of dirt away from his body. Reaching up with his sleeve, he wiped away the matted blood and dust from his eyes and finally took a look at his surroundings. With the seat belt tugging uncomfortably across his chest, he finally realized that he was the one upside down, not the dachshund. The helping pair of hands reached in and found the release button on the seat belt, dropping Pitt to the ceiling of the car. Pitt shuffled toward the driver’s-side window, but the hands yanked him toward the open passenger door.
“You don’t want to go that way, mister. The first step is a doozy.”
Pitt heeded the voice and crawled toward the passenger door, where he was helped out and onto his feet. The pounding in his head eased as he stood upright, but a light trickle of blood still rolled down his cheek. Looking at the damaged car, he shook his head at the good fortune that had saved him.
The sliding mass of rock and gravel that had battered the car and flipped it on its roof had also pushed it across the road, to the very edge of the steep chasm that fell to the river below. The car would have easily gone over the edge, taking Pitt to his death, but for a firmly cemented mileage signpost. The slim metal post caught the car just behind the front fender, pinning it to the edge of the road, as tons of loose rock plunged down the hill around both ends of the car. The road itself was buried under a mound of dirt and rocks for a stretch of fifty yards.
“Must be some clean living that kept you from going over the edge,” Pitt heard his rescuer say.
He turned to face a robust older man with white hair and beard who stood gazing at Pitt through a pair of jovial gray eyes.
“It wasn’t clean living that saved me, I can assure you,” Pitt replied. “Thank you for pulling me out. I would have suffocated in there if you hadn’t dug your way in.”
“Don’t mention it. Why don’t you come on back to the RV and let me patch you up,” the man said, pointing to a motor home parked on unblemished asphalt a few yards away. It was the same motor home that Pitt had passed earlier on the road.
Pitt nodded and followed the man and the little black-and-tan dachshund as they climbed into an open side door of the RV. Pitt was surprised to find the interior finished in teak and polished brass, which gave the look of a luxury cabin on a sailing ship. On one wall he curiously noticed a bookcase filled with reference guides on mining and geology.
“Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up while I find my medical kit?” the man said.
Pitt washed his hands and face in a porcelain sink as a Royal Canadian Mounted Police car raced up with its lights flashing. The old man stepped out and spoke to the police, then returned a few minutes later and helped Pitt apply a bandage to a thin gash that zigzagged across the left side of his scalp.
“The Mounties said there’s a highway construction crew working just a few miles away. They can get a front-end loader over here pretty quick, and should have a lane cleared through the rocks in just an hour or two. They’ll want to take a report from you when you feel up to it.”
“Thanks for putting them off. I’m just starting to get my bearings back.”
“Forgive me for not asking earlier, you must surely need a drink. What can I get you?”
“I’d kill for a tequila, if you have any,” Pitt replied, sagging into a small leather-upholstered chair. The dachshund immediately jumped into his lap and coaxed Pitt to pet him behind the ears.
“You are in luck,” the man replied, pulling a stubby bottle of Don Julio tequila out of a cabinet. Swirling the bottle around, he said, “Still a few shots left.”
“I’m lucky twice today. That’s a fine brand of tequila,” Pitt remarked, recognizing the expensive label of blue agave cactus juice.
Pitt let the warm liquid trickle down his throat, admiring its complex flavor. He felt his head clear almost immediately.
“That was quite a slide,” the man said. “Good thing you weren’t a few yards farther down the road.”
“I saw it coming and tried to back away from it but came up a little short.”
“I don’t know what kind of fool would be blasting above an open highway,” he said, “but I sure hope they catch the bugger.”
“Blasting?” Pitt asked, suddenly recalling the white sedan he saw parked up the road.
“I heard the pop and noticed a puff of white smoke up the hill right before those boulders started dancing. I told the Mounties about it, but they said there are no blasting crews working anywhere around here.”
“You don’t think it was just a large boulder that let go and kicked up the rest?”
The man knelt down and opened a wide drawer beneath the bookshelf. Digging beneath a thick blanket, he exposed a small wooden box marked DYNO NOBEL. Pitt recognized the manufacturer’s name as the offshoot of Alfred Nobel, inventor of dynamite. Opening the lid, the man showed Pitt a number of eight-inch-long yellow cartridges packed inside.
“I do a little blasting myself now and then, when investigating a potential mineral vein.”
“You’re a prospector?” Pitt asked, nodding toward the shelf of geology books.
“More of a hobby than a profession,” the man replied. “I just like searching for things of value. I would never be blasting near civilization, but that’s probably what happened here. Some fool found something shiny up the hill and decided he had to have a closer look. I wouldn’t want to foot his cleanup bill if he gets caught.”
Pitt nodded silently, suspecting that the blast hadn’t originated from an innocent miner.
“What brings you to this area?” Pitt asked.
Arctic Drift dp-20 Page 18
