Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “That photo was taken ten years ago,” Shelburne said. “I have nothing more recent.”

  The subject in the photo had dark brown hair, same color that my little brother Henry had. My Henry was reed-thin, too. Thin-blooded. He’d worn a red cowboy hat just about every waking moment, at least during that last year. If my Henry had lived into his teens, he might have gone to a studio to have an Old West photo taken. He would have tried for a squint like that.

  “Something wrong?” Shelburne said.

  I looked up. Both Shelburne and Walter were watching me. Walter, with curbed concern. Shelburne, puzzled. I blinked. Eyes dry, no tears. What, then? Maybe I’m just that readable. I considered shrugging off Shelburne’s question but that would have made this too consequential, something that couldn’t be spoken. I said, “I’m just reminded of my own brother. Another Henry. He died very young. End of story.”

  “Another Henry,” Shelburne repeated, softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” I returned my attention to the photo, looking this time at the tooled leather belt holding up Henry Shelburne’s woolen pants. A big silver buckle anchored the belt.

  Robert Shelburne noticed me noticing. “Dad gave him the belt.”

  Something was written on the buckle, in thin curlicue lettering. I took up my hand lens.

  “It says quicksilver. Dad gave him the nickname, too.”

  I put down the lens.

  “Quicksilver is what miners called liquid mercury, back in the day. For the color and the volatility.” Shelburne gave a sad smile. “Henry liked to play with the stuff.”

  “Yeah, who doesn’t?” I glanced at the lunchbox containing the vial of mercury. “Not very smart, though.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He knows better now but it’s too late. Which is why he left his mercury kit along with the note.”

  Walter said, “Are you saying he intends to poison himself?”

  “He already has. But the coup de grace… I don’t know what he intends. His mind is at times chaotic.” Shelburne touched his temple with his forefinger. “Even as a kid, he was uncontainable. Quicksilver was the right name for him—mercurial as hell when he didn’t get his way. And he never did, with our father. Whatever he did to impress Dad turned into a flop. And then he’d regroup and try again.”

  I glanced again at the photo, at Henry’s cool-guy squint. I wondered if he practiced it in front of a mirror before posing for the camera. Quicksilver: bright and shiny, squint-worthy, but difficult to contain. I turned to Robert Shelburne. “And you?”

  “The opposite. In fact, I’d say Dad was always trying to impress me.”

  “I mean, did you have a nickname?”

  “Oh. Yes. Henry gave it to me.” Shelburne shrugged. “Golden Boy.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “I don’t yet understand,” I said, “why Henry is suicidal now.”

  “Deep depression,” Shelburne said. “One of the many symptoms of mercury poisoning. And that’s on top of Dad poisoning. Dad spoon-feeds him the family legacy, berates him, Dad dies, Henry finds the legacy rock. All of sudden Henry’s the man. The mission, which he chooses to accept, is to find the source of the rock.”

  “Might he not succeed?”

  “What if he doesn’t? The final flop. Can’t even impress a dead man.”

  My heart squeezed.

  “Either way, he sees himself as executor of the legacy.”

  “Meaning, find the gold?”

  “Not just that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Finding what our father was after, for most of his adult life.”

  “Not gold?”

  “Gold, sure. But in the context of something more fundamental.”

  Walter, at my side, stirred.

  “I’m going to have to go in-depth here. Another backgrounder. Our grandfather—known as the great bullshitter—claimed to have found a hidden ore deposit, from whence this rock presumably came. There’s a letter, flowery, vague as hell, teasing. Full of boasts. My father ended up in possession of the letter. And he signed on big-time. Keep in mind, this had become the family legend.”

  “There’s no need to warn me about legends,” Walter said.

  Shelburne tipped his head. “So my dad started looking for this deposit, dragging Henry and me along, preaching the letter. When we weren’t out hunting, Dad was feeding us the bullshit along with our breakfast cereal. Fast-forward twenty years. Dad dies—heart attack. We find the rock, Henry takes possession and finds the bullshit letter in Dad’s files.” Shelburne eyed us. “Maybe not bullshit, after all. You geologists will know, right? Is this rock from the… Well, you have a look and tell me.”

  Shelburne took the ore specimen out of the lunchbox. He walked over to Walter’s workbench and placed it there.

  Walter followed.

  “Like I said, Henry split the original chunk of ore and left me this half. And let me tell you, when I saw the fresh-cut face it was damned dramatic.”

  The fresh-cut face didn’t show on Walter’s workbench because Shelburne had placed the rock cut-face down.

  “Go ahead,” Shelburne said. “See for yourself.”

  Walter turned the rock over. He sucked in his breath.

  I might have made a noise, myself. The cut face was blue, the blue of glacial ice.

  Walter spoke. “I never expected to see this. It’s simply not to be seen, today.”

  “That’s right,” Shelburne said. “At least that’s what Dad always said. The blue is buried.”

  I turned to Shelburne. “It’s chemistry. Your rock, where the old surface shows, has been exposed to oxygen and so the iron minerals in the matrix have changed to an oxide. That’s why the color is reddish. But there, on the fresh face, which by definition hasn’t been exposed for long, the iron is not oxidized. That’s why it’s blue.”

  Walter said, to me, “It’s not the chemistry I was remarking upon, dear. It’s the legend.”

  I replied, “You’re becoming as elliptical as Mr. Shelburne.”

  “I’m just gobsmacked. This is, quite possibly, an ore sample from the deep blue lead.”

  Shelburne said, “Looks like I found the right guy.”

  “The blue lead.” I searched my memory. “Isn’t that…”

  “Extraordinary,” Walter said. “Mr. Shelburne has walked into our lab with a rock that every geologist who harbors an interest in the story of gold dreams of seeing. The blue. The deep blue gold-bearing gravels. The blue lead.”

  Shelburne said, “The golden brick road.”

  “Legend has it, dear,” Walter said to me, “that long ago there was one special river channel, different from all others, where the gold-bearing gravels were deposited. The miners followed that path and they called it the ‘lead’ because they thought it would lead them to their heart’s desire.”

  I said, “Isn’t that where legends normally lead?”

  Walter smiled. “Of course the reality is that there were many channels, many tributaries. But down deep in those channels, down in the gut, the legend is true because the gravel of the lower stratum is a striking blue color and it’s there where the gold ran rich.”

  “You’re talking about the ancient river channels. Of the Tertiary Period.”

  Shelburne said, “The lost rivers of California.”

  “They’re not lost,” I said. “They’re simply hidden by subsequent geologic events. Eruptions. Uplift. Erosion.”

  Shelburne turned to Walter. “She doesn’t have much romance in her soul, does she?”

  I flinched. Don’t I?

  ~ ~ ~

  “Speaking of romance,” I said, to Shelburne, “what about you? The blue lead and the gold in the rock? Your eyes lit up.”

  He lifted his palms. “You got me.”

  “I do?”

  “We’re all products of our childhood. Those lessons run deep. You do what you can with them when you grow up. Take them to heart, rebel, whatever. But you don’t erase them. I found my niche in t
he business world but, sure, I still have an eye for gold.”

  “Then why didn’t you join Henry in the hunt?”

  “He didn’t invite me.”

  “But he’s inviting you now.”

  “Yes, the clues. That’s the way Henry communicates. His memory is damaged so he plays these little games. They started as a mnemonic, a way to remind himself of things. Remind others. And it became ingrained. The way I read the clues he left behind this time, he wants me to follow him, help him.”

  “Help him find the gold?”

  “Help him if he doesn’t.”

  “Or do both?”

  Shelburne abruptly unzipped his jacket. Underneath, he wore a slim green T-shirt with a Club One Fitness logo. He lifted the shirt. For a bizarre moment I thought he was showing off his gym-toned abs, and then I noticed the belt holding up his hiking pants. It was a tooled leather belt with a big silver buckle.

  I couldn’t read the curlicue lettering without coming closer, but I knew what it said. Quicksilver.

  “Henry left the belt behind, as well. I’ll be wearing it until I find him.”

  I thought, very effective. If Shelburne had practiced this pitch in front of a mirror he could not have performed it more convincingly. Isn’t that what venture capitalists prized?

  Shelburne let his shirt drop. “Henry’s a wounded soul. Please help me find him.”

  And then I felt unduly suspicious and very small. I looked to Walter.

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  In the not too distant past Walter would have decided the issue himself, but he’d offered me a partnership a year ago and I’d accepted and new rules had come into play. Either of us can bring in a case for consideration but the final choice is made jointly. Still, there’s the dance of who goes first. Walter was playing the gentleman, here. Charmingly old-fashioned, sometimes irritating, Walter always being a stickler for rules. Ladies first.

  So I went first. Were we going to sign on to find Henry Shelburne? I wondered what I would have said had Robert Shelburne’s brother’s name been, say, George. But it wasn’t. I met Walter’s look. “It’s what we do.”

  He said, “That it is.”

  Dance concluded.

  “Mr. Shelburne,” Walter said, “before we proceed we’ll require your signature on a contract. And a retainer.”

  Shelburne flashed a grateful smile and took out his checkbook. Walter went to the file where we keep our brochures and reports and contracts. They sat together at the map table.

  I watched.

  I don’t believe in premonitions—I’m not into the woo-woo stuff—but it seemed creepily pertinent that the contract-signing took place beneath the poster on the wall. It’s a film poster from the Disney flick Alice in Wonderland, the part where Alice is tumbling down the rabbit hole. Walter bought and hung that poster. Walter likes the message: you follow the evidence wherever it takes you, down the rabbit hole if you must.

  And that’s where Henry the wounded soul had evidently gone.

  I’ve never been a fan of Alice, or her topsy-turvy world. And right now I was, in particular, not a fan of that whacked-out character she meets, the Mad Hatter. Back in Chem 101 I’d learned about the effects of mercury—and in a textbook sidebar, the reason the hatter is mad. Back in the day, hat-makers used mercury in the process of curing animal pelts to make hats. Day in, day out, breathing in the vapors. It affected speech. Coordination. It led to mental instability. Hallucinations. Dementia.

  Mad as a hatter.

  And we’re gearing up to go hunting for Henry Shelburne who, according to his brother, suffers the effects of mercury poisoning. Who leaves behind his vial of mercury as a fare-thee-well.

  Who is reminding me of my own little brother, who suffered the effects of a genetic disorder. Who died while I was looking out the window.

  Henry Shelburne and Henry Oldfield, each of them damaged goods.

  So yeah, I’m on board with taking this case. Let’s find Henry Shelburne before he does something stupid.

  But let’s do it on alert. Let’s be cautious.

  4

  The men concluded the paperwork. Walter moved to our mini-kitchen to put the coffee on—coffee being a celebratory ritual he likes to indulge, if the client is amenable—his version of breaking bread together, a symbolic sharing of the basics in life, establishing trust.

  Shelburne packed away the photograph and the mercury kit. Exhibits no longer required.

  I turned to the blue-faced rock.

  ~ ~ ~

  Striking as it was, the blue face was not going get us where we needed to go.

  There was a better clue cemented in the rock. A crackerjack clue. I assumed Henry the amateur geologist had noticed it, as well. Why else grab his microscope?

  I grabbed mine.

  Mine—well, Walter’s and mine—is a bulk-specimen stereoscopic scope. It has an articulated arm that can lift and reach and twist and accommodate a thick object like this chunk of ore. It looks vaguely prehistoric. I’d wager it cost more than Henry’s.

  I placed the rock on the stage and focused in on the angular dark pebble.

  The digital camera built into the scope sent the view to the attached monitor.

  Under magnification, the pebble showed its structure, a mosaic of tiny interlocking grains that made the rock tough, that shouted its name. Hornfels—very very cool. Even cooler was the exquisite crystal with a black Maltese cross piercing its heart.

  Walter brought me a mug of coffee and paused to admire the magnified pebble. He lifted his free hand; we high-fived. He said, “I believe I’ll start with the maps and see if that hornfels can lead us to fat city.” He headed to our map cabinet.

  Shelburne took his place, brew in hand. “Fat city?”

  I said, “The jackpot.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  I switched to my own. “That pebble is chiastolite hornfels, which…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Chiastolite from the Greek khiastos, meaning a cross. Hornfels from the German, meaning horn rock, because it’s flinty and sharp-edged.”

  “The names aside—what does it mean for our search?”

  I took a careful sip of steaming coffee. A celebration in honor of the coolness of geological names.

  Shelburne drummed his fingers on his coffee mug.

  I said, “It narrows the neighborhood. Let’s start with the hornfels pebble. Notice the edges are still angular. That means it was not transported far from its source. If a stream had carried and battered it, the edges would be rounded. But they’re angular and that tells us the source was a nearby hornfels zone.”

  “How do we find that?”

  “Hornfels is very site specific—it’s not all over the place.”

  Shelburne glanced at Walter at the map cabinet. “Meaning look at a map?”

  “To begin with. But hornfels zones can be small, and not always mapped.”

  “So we could be shit-out-of-luck?”

  “Not necessarily. We can look for the birthplace. Hornfels gets born when a dike of hot magma intrudes sedimentary rock—call that the parent rock. The dike cooks the parent rock, metamorphosing it. And then the magma cools and hardens into igneous rock. In our case, that’s probably an igneous rock called diorite, since we have diorite in the specimen.”

  I paused to give Shelburne the chance to look at the diorite cobbles in the ore. He didn’t bother.

  He said, “What about the cross?”

  “That’s a gift. That tells us the nature of the parent rock. The chiastolite is a carbon inclusion, which suggests that the parent rock contained organic matter which became the carbon. So that parent rock is likely a carbonaceous slate that got cooked into chiastolite hornfels when the magma intruded.”

  “Could Henry have figured that out?”

  “You said he’s an amateur geologist.”

  “He’s also a romantic. He’d follow that cross and call himself a crusader.”r />
  “You want romance?” I set down my coffee and cupped my hands. “Here’s the metamorphic contact zone: rings around the intrusive dike. The outer ring is the slate. The inner ring, more cooked, is the hornfels. So I can freaking well say that we’re looking for a contact of diorite and slate. If we’re lucky we’ll find the inner ring—the hornfels aureole sheathing the dike.” I picked up my coffee. “There’s romance for you. Geology gets downright sexy.”

  Shelburne winked. “You put on a good dog-and-pony show.”

  “It’s not…”

  “It’s a compliment.”

  I shrugged. It was really more of a petrology-and-geochemistry show, but never mind.

  “Yoo hoo!” Walter called, from the table beside the map cabinet. “Come on over and let’s see where we are.”

  I trailed Robert Shelburne to the map table. Along the way he detoured to the kitchen sink and dumped his coffee, whispering to me, “Can’t stand the stuff.”

  I didn’t know what to think of that. Of him. He’s considerate of Walter’s need for the coffee ceremony. Unwilling to decline the offer. Unwilling to drink the stuff. Willing to let me in on it. I didn’t know what to think.

  We flanked Walter. He was hunched, hands pinning a map to the table. It was a geologic map of the gold country, with lithologic pattern symbols showing the major rock units. Walter’s crosshatched hands were weathered symbols in and of themselves. Walter’s a seasoned pro, with rocks and clients. If he’d noticed the coffee dump, he ignored it. If he’d paid mind to the dog-and-pony comment, he didn’t mention it. He lifted a hand, patted my arm. Don’t take it to heart.

  I hadn’t.

  “This is the Mother Lode,” Walter said. “It’s roughly three hundred square miles. If we narrow that to likely hornfels neighborhoods, we’re looking at many dozens of square miles.”

  “I can do better than that,” Shelburne said.

  Walter looked up, from map to client.

  “I can narrow the neighborhood down to about twenty square miles.” Shelburne ran his finger across a slice of the gold belt. “That’s where my father searched. That’s where he dragged Henry and me searching. What you need to do is figure out where in the ‘hood this rock came from. That’s where Henry will be searching.”