Use your nail.
And then I understood, staring at the pebble pinched between Walter’s fingers, staring now at his fingernails, a man’s good-sized hands and a man’s good-sized nails. His nails were too large. Unlike mine, which just might fit into the locking bar of the cable tie. Yes, Walter. I get it.
You do your bluff, I’ll do my best to unlock this sucker. And then what? And then we’ll see.
“Listen to me, boys,” Walter said, voice gone soft now, so soft that we all had to strain to hear. “Your grandfather saw that hillside. Look at it.”
They looked, scanning the walls, and while they looked I bent to my work. The heavy-duty cable tie binding my ankles had a big wide slot. And I had small unclipped fingernails. Doable?
“I give you this,” Walter said. “A workable hypothesis. Follow me. A, you have a source of trapped mercury in that hillside. B, it is likely trapped in a bedrock basin. C, something created that basin. D, a long time ago a dike intruded a Tertiary gravel channel and acted as a giant riffle. It created a giant pocket, in which gold collected. That ore specimen you brought to the lab, Robert, originated in there. In that hillside. Right behind you.”
I began to think it wasn’t a bluff. As my mind followed the geology lesson, my fingers worked. I worked my right pointer fingernail into the cable slot and pressed down on the locking bar. Astonishingly, the lock opened. Not astonishing. The right tool for the right job, hey? I nearly laughed. A crazy-ass laugh.
I stole a glance at Walter, gave him the slightest nod.
He returned it.
“In that hillside,” he said, “there is what geologists call a fracture spring. It charges with winter rains that percolate through the soils. Over the years it eroded the material in the riffled pocket and some of it flushed out here.”
Eroding the trough where we sat. I thought, it’s really not a bluff. I held my breath and very very slowly backed the loose section of the cable tie through the slot, making that ticking-clock sound.
“Some bits larger than others,” Walter said, loud again, “and at least one a large enough specimen that it caught the eye of your grandfather. Most so small they would catch nobody’s eye. Unless one knew where to look.”
Henry turned. “How do you...?”
“Know?” Walter glanced at me.
I held the opened tie in a loop around my ankles. I held it like a prize.
“How do I know?” Walter boomed. “I deduce. I look at the geology, Henry. I analyze. I make a hypothesis. And because I understand what I am looking at, I know where to look.”
“Is there...”
“Yes.”
Henry came out of the grotto, pausing at the entrance, eyes fixed on Walter. Robert leaned forward, his bound hand straining against the cuff. His unbound hand had captured the Glock. He held it loose, upended, and a thin silver necklace slid out of the barrel.
I thought, chilled, could the thing work?
“Come here, son,” Walter said.
Yeah, I thought. Step away from the grotto. Step away from the kindling. Step away from your brother.
“Look,” Walter said, “right in my hand is a bit of that gravel. The same stuff your grandfather found.” Walter angled his bound hands. Showing a different face of the tiny rock. “Look here. There is a visible grain of gold. You can see it but you’ll have to come closer.”
I stared at the pebble. There was color. Could be a flake of gold. Could be a grain of pyrite. Fool’s gold. Either way, my pulse leapt. With a tremendous effort I yanked my gaze from the pebble to look at Robert. His face was keen. Avid. His gun hand had gone slack.
I moved my feet. Just slightly to the side, in preparation. Keeping them together as if they were still bound.
“Come on, son,” Walter said. “You should have a look at this.”
Henry whispered, “No.”
I heard the yearning in Henry’s voice before I turned and saw it in his face. No? You don’t believe Walter? You, the amateur geologist, don’t believe the evidence before your eyes? Then come the fuck closer and look. Because I saw. Because I believed. Because Walter was talking geology. Not legend. Not wishful thinking. For the love of your soul Henry come and take the pebble from Walter and see for yourself. This is what you’ve hunted since your father fed you the legend with your morning cereal. This is what Camden Shelburne promised. Lured you with. Taunted you with. This is why your grandfather left you a letter that said look under the floorboard in the attic. It's your legacy. This is it, Henry. Your father wanted it but he never had a chunk of ore to follow. Only a flowery letter with vague clues. And he grew frustrated and he berated his sons. Berated you, Henry. This is where you prove yourself to your father. To the dead man. Alive, I fear, in your mind. You found this mine site. You got here, you got us all here. You pointed a gun at us and hired yourself a couple of geologists. All you have to do is take the pebble that the gold-minded geologist found. And then you can say you won. All that shit with your father and your brother over the failed cleanup company doesn’t matter. You can win now. Take it. You earned it Henry. You really did. You spent your life force hunting this. You want it. I see it in your face. You’re squinting to see what Walter is offering. Come get what you came for. You look like the kid in the Old West photo. You look like a kid.
An aching memory washed over me, a kid in a red cowboy hat playing hide-and-seek.
I shut it down.
“Henry,” Robert said. “My God. We can do this. Together.”
The hesitation was tiny, a clenching around Henry’s mouth.
And then Henry stepped back into the grotto and struck the match and flung it into the kindling.
CHAPTER 38
I heard it before I saw it. Heard the crackling, like corn popping. Smelled it before I saw it. Smelled the bitter odor of mountain misery, just curling into the air. And then I saw a black resinous tendril of smoke, and then an orange tendril of fire. The smoke rose thinly, up up up the chimneyed grotto. The fire spread laterally, licking along a plank, probing the jumbled pile of splintery old wood.
Henry squatted and blew on his fire. A fresh match in his hand.
Robert raised his gun hand.
Time turned squirrely. Stretched and slowed.
I was scrambling to my feet, ankles free of the cable tie, hands still bound, swinging my legs behind me to lever myself up, and stumbling up the trough, legs rubber, stampeding into the grotto, a madwoman surprising Robert in the act of aiming the barrel of the Glock in the direction of his brother.
Time turned so stretchy that I had all the time in the world to glance at Henry in the corner and see him smile.
To glance behind me and see Walter struggling to get onto his knees, ankles and hands still bound, an impossible task.
To hear Walter shout, “Blast.”
To stop myself at the edge of the pool and wonder if there was room for me.
To assess the growing blaze, to see the flames heighten, to feel the heat cast off, to swear I could smell the iron pipe heating.
To yank up my parka to cover my mouth, my nose, and collapse into position with my boots over the edge.
And then whoosh I scooted into Henry Shelburne’s pool, crushed between Robert and the bedrock edge.
For a moment all the familiar workings of things were suddenly cast aside.
I sat on top of—on top of—the silver sea.
My knees were bent, my heels cupped into the liquid, and I braced my arms behind me, hands clutching the mercury like I’d clutched the silver heart back at the South Yuba River. Cold and clammy and alien.
The heat from the fire was almost welcome.
Robert’s face was inches from mine. His eyes bitter green. We just gazed at one another, me thinking is this how you gazed at your father as he fell into the river?
I was dizzy. Short of breath from my exertions. Breathing into my parka, re-breathing that air but it was sweet in comparison to the grotto air that was about to go bad.
I hissed, “Cover your mouth.”
Robert could not, not with one hand bound to the spigot and the other holding the Glock aloft.
There came a sound like a gunshot, another match striking.
Robert aimed.
And time that bitch speeded up. The velocity of a fired bullet. The speed of liquid mercury heating and particles vibrating faster and faster until they escape their fluid bonds and form a gas. I cried out stop and the speed of sound beat me to it, reached Robert’s ears and made him curse before I could reach him myself. And then at last I hit his chest, threw myself upon him, losing the grip on my parka in the process, my parka mask slipping down leaving my face naked, my nose and mouth unprotected as I sent Robert spinning, me spinning with him, together we spun on the mercury it seemed forever without friction, Robert’s free arm whipping out, and at last Robert’s hand opened like a flower and lost its hold on Henry Shelburne’s weapon.
~ ~ ~
Walter shouted.
Walter was on his elbows and knees crawling, bound feet lifted, an eternity to go before he reached Henry.
Henry the kid playing with matches.
“The gold, Henry,” Robert shouted. “You and me. We can do it.”
Henry didn’t answer. The only sound was the thunder of the fire and the hiss of streaming mercury.
I yanked my parka back up. Yanked Robert’s Club One fitness T-shirt up over his mouth, his nose, because Robert was desperately yanking his bound hand trying to get free.
I fumbled at the cargo pocket of my pants. Fumbled it open. Fumbled out my field knife.
It took forever to move to the spigot, it was like a dream where you’re swimming through molasses, where your feet run but your body remains in place, and damn me but I calculated the time, how long it was going to take me to cut Robert free, for the two of us to slither our way out of this hideous pool and escape the fire and the heating quicksilver. And I thought, hey lady you could slap the knife into his hand. You could leave him to it, you’ve opened the knife yourself one-handed and surely Mister Gearhead can open a knife one-handed so just get yourself the hell out and tackle Henry and stomp out the fire, no, stomp out the fire first and then tackle Henry because all he could do was light another match and if you got the fire out first he could do no....
There came a sound like salvation—Henry stomping out the fire, kicking apart the pile of wood.
And then another sound, a broken sound that was Henry’s own. “No we can’t, R.”
CHAPTER 39
By the time I cut Robert loose, by the time we fumbled ourselves out of the quicksilver pool, by the time I stumbled to meet Walter and cut his ties loose, by the time Walter grabbed the rusting bucket from the grotto and filled it in the sluiceway creek in order to douse the embers of the dying fire, Henry had disappeared.
And then the three of us stood outside the grotto, all action at an end.
Rooted.
Overwhelmed, really.
At last, I cleared my throat and asked Robert Shelburne where his brother would have gone.
Robert rubbed a hand across his soot-streaked face and said, “Fuck if I care.”
I looked up Sluiceway Canyon and then up farther, above to the rim, and then back down to Enchantment Valley—what I could see of it. Nothing. No insubstantial figure retreating into the woods. No flicker of a brown parka. I said, “He still needs help.” Or rather, I thought, he needs arresting.
Walter cleared his throat. “None of us is in any shape to go searching for him right now.”
As if we had a plan, we gathered ourselves and headed down into the valley.
We paused there.
Disoriented. At least, I was. It seemed like another time when Walter and I had sneaked through the notch and entered this valley, me thinking of old-movie enchantments.
No Lost Horizon here. Rather, found horror.
Robert finally said, “His tent's still there.”
That was all the direction we needed. We headed for Henry's brown tent in the trees. Robert unzipped the front and we looked inside.
Nobody home.
Henry had abandoned his gear.
Sleeping bag, stove, cook pot, lantern, open backpack, clothing in neat piles.
Then Robert made a strange sound, a strangled laugh, and pointed to a chunky handset in the corner of the tent. “He's got a satellite phone. Mister Nineteenth-Century.”
I said, “Then we can call for help.” I shoved past Robert and got the sat phone and tried for a signal.
Walter said, “He's also got dry socks.”
Walter ducked into the tent and emerged with a pair of gray woolen socks. He looked at Robert, looked at me. “It would be a waste.” He sank to the ground and unlaced his boots.
As I tried once more for a signal on the sat phone, I watched Walter and decided that if there was a second pair of socks in the tent, I would follow suit.
Unless Robert needed them.
Robert was shivering. His bare arms puckered with goosebumps. He said, “I'm going to grab my sweatshirt and jacket.” He headed back toward Sluiceway Canyon.
I wasn't going to be getting a signal down here in the trees. I needed to get up to a position for clear line-of-sight to the satellites. I said, “While you two take care of your wardrobe, I'll go up to the notch and give this a try.”
CHAPTER 40
Gail Hawkins slipped into the hollow in the canyon wall.
She had emerged from the tunnel uphill and watched, hidden in shadow, as Henry and Robert and Walter and Cassie went crazy down below in the canyon.
She had emerged from the tunnel heartsick.
Defeated.
It was all for nothing.
Nothing is what she'd found in the tunnel.
The bitter taste of copper filled her mouth again, even after the chelation.
She'd emerged hungry for the pure clean taste of gold. She'd emerged unfed, and when she spotted them she wanted to run down the sluiceway and take them down, all of them, for leading her on this false trail, on this hunt to nothing, and she had to brace her hands against the rock of the tunnel mouth to stop herself from running them down.
And then, watching them, her golden lioness eyes had dulled in confusion.
And then Henry walked away and disappeared, and then Robert and Walter and Cassie went down into the valley and disappeared.
And then she had moved down along the sluiceway—not hunting, she had nothing to hunt, now—just going down to find out what they'd been doing.
Now she knew.
They had gone crazy in here.
There was a pool of liquid mercury and a dripping faucet and the still-stinking ashes of a brush fire.
They were playing with fire.
They were playing with quicksilver.
Gail stared down at the silver pool. She had seen plenty of the stuff in drops and globs in the rivers. She'd scooped up globs by accident with her panning plate. She knew enough to leave it alone.
She had never seen anything like this. It was a silver mirror and she leaned over the pool wondering if she would see her face reflected. She did not. It was too dark in this hollow. That didn't matter. The closer she leaned in to the pool, the more she wanted to touch it.
She wanted to put a drop on her tongue and taste it.
It would taste metallic.
Bitter like copper?
It would taste like silver, velvety.
It was hypnotic.
She almost did it. She almost touched her finger to the silver vision.
But her name was Gail, hard G. Hard G for gold, not silver.
Hard G, she suddenly thought, for gun.
There was a gun lying on top of the quicksilver.
Of course she had seen the gun when she first came in here but then she had been hypnotized by the mercury. Now she studied the gun. The Glock. It had to be the same gun Henry had used to hit her over the head. It had to be the same gun Henry had pointed at Robert and Walter and Ca
ssie, outside the tunnel, and then here, outside this hollow.
Why was it in the pool?
She was going to have to touch the silver after all.
She leaned a little closer. She stretched her right arm and extended the fingers of her right hand.
Not her left hand. Her left arm ached, burned, from the chelation. She did not trust the fingers of her left hand.
With her right hand she touched the grip of the gun.
She touched the quicksilver.
It was cold and slippery. It felt alive. A living cold thing. She burned, for a moment, to hold it, to warm it up.
And then she shook off the hypnosis and pulled the gun out of the pool.
The mercury slid off the gun like a shedding snakeskin.
She pointed the barrel downward. Silver ran out of the muzzle.
A tiny stream, and then drops. Silver bullets.
“Who are you?”
Gail Hawkins stiffened, jerked, tried to scramble to her feet, tried to see through the sudden blaze of red coloring her vision, tried to understand how she could have been taken unaware again, and she turned then, swiveling on her knees because she could not rise to her feet, and she saw the shadow of the man standing in front of the hollow and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment, long enough to clear her vision, and when she looked again she saw Robert Shelburne standing there, haloed in her golden vision.
He'd surprised her.
Never ever again would someone surprise her.
She pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 41
The Forest Service ranger apologized, explaining that his helicopter was not immediately available, but promising to lead a party on horseback to launch the search, and cautioning that could take a few hours to reach us.
I told him I understood.
I told him I'd keep the sat phone handy, and explained that getting a signal up here was touch and go. Indeed, I'd had to go halfway down Skinny Canyon to find a spot where the high walls did not interfere.
I pocketed the phone and headed back up to the notch.
Entering Enchantment Valley, this second time, was vaguely unsettling. All that had occurred here was already hardening into memory. Over there at the tunnel mouth was where Henry lined us up, holding that gun in his pink peeling hands, and hired us to hunt for his gold. Over there, toward Skinny Creek, damned if Henry's campfire didn't still give off a whisper of greasy smoke. And inside the tunnel, and up in Sluiceway Canyon, and at the grotto...all of that was past tense. It all felt like it had happened ages ago, and like it was happening right now.
The Forensic Geology Box Set Page 15
