It let through a lot more noise, as well. Unlike the office, where the sound of the operation had been somewhat muffled, the break room walls were clearly thinner, and the sound of … whatever it was they were doing in the warehouse was far more pronounced.
There wasn’t a water fountain or a cooler, but a stack of paper cups sat on the counter near the sink. I gratefully filled up, draining several before I was no longer thirsty.
Blasted heat, I thought as I crumpled the paper cup. It’s so dry here, you just have to keep drinking water.
I stepped into the bathroom and took a moment to wash up, cleaning some of the sweat from my face. If Henderson was out and about, he probably wouldn’t look any less sweat-washed than I was, but at the same time, I didn’t want to meet with him looking like some wild man who’d wandered out of the desert. The cool water felt good against my skin and I was tempted to splash a little on my shirt to help stay cool, but I didn’t trust it to dry before Henderson got back, and I didn’t want to meet him looking damp. I did settle my hair a bit, dampening the long, black clumps and pulling them back so they didn’t look quite so sticky. It was a temporary fix, but again, it was better than looking disheveled.
I walked back into the other room and sat on the couch, the roar of the mining operation once again fading to a dull rumble as the door shut behind me. The secretary was still behind her desk, head twitching back and forth as her fingers tapped out a faint staccato rhythm on her keyboard. I sighed, leaned back, and put my foot up, tapping my foot against the air to kill time.
“So …” I said, trying to stave off my boredom. The secretary looked up, the rapid clacking coming to a stop as her fingers hung in the air. “What did my friend want anyway?”
“Mr. Rocke?” she asked. Her gaze drifted back down to her keyboard, and the rapid clacking began again. “He wanted to be allowed onto company property to inspect mines and caves.”
“And Mr. Henderson wouldn’t let him?” I asked.
“No,” she said without looking up. “Company property is private, and we do not welcome trespassers.”
“Even with a company guide?”
She shook her head, her attention still focused on her work. “It’s not worth the risk. A lot of the old mine shafts are closed off for a reason. They’re dangerous, unstable. You’d be risking your life.”
“And you’re worried the company would be held responsible?” I asked. It wasn’t exactly a vital question—and I would probably get the same response from Henderson—but I was impressed by how easily she kept working while talking to me.
“Not me, personally,” she said, reaching over and grabbing a file. “I’m just a secretary, and quite honestly, whether or not the company was responsible for that kind of thing wouldn’t be my deal. I doubt the company would be liable in any case, since the policy is not to let people into our old mines,” she said, stressing the last part of the sentence. She finally glanced up just long enough to give me a pointed look. There wasn’t any annoyance or malice in the sentence, or in the expression she was giving me, but it was definitely a look that meant she wanted to make certain I understood the policy.
“All right, I get it,” I said, holding up one hand. “And I can see why.” Her attention drifted back down to her work, the rapid clacking starting up once more.
“So what would you suggest, then?” I asked. The clacking stopped, and once again I found myself on the other end of an intense gaze.
“What do you mean?’” she asked. “I already told you we aren’t going to make an exception.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, shaking my head. Her stern look cooled somewhat. “Since you know I won’t be allowed onto any property owned by the company, what would you be able to recommend that isn’t part of Henderson Mining?”
“Why?”
“Because if I know my friend, he probably went right to that option once you guys told him he couldn’t go on your property.” I gave the secretary a shrug, and for a moment, I could have sworn that I saw one corner of her mouth turn up slightly.
“This is the friend that’s missing?” she asked.
I gave her a single, straightforward nod.
“All right, tell you what,” she said as the rumble of the mine increased in volume. She glanced towards the door to the break room, and then back to me. “You want to know what property the company doesn’t own? I’ll see what I can do.”
The door to the break room swung open, and her expression changed in an instant, once again becoming the serious look of complete impassiveness she’d worn when I’d first walked in. “Mr. Henderson,” she said, giving the man a nod. “The latest survey report is in on your desk.”
“Excellent.” Henderson was tall, almost as tall as I was, with short black hair that looked damp, as if he’d recently made use of the break room sink the same way I had. His face was weathered, as was the hand that he extended to meet mine. “You must be my guest, then, Mr. Decraw?”
“Decroux,” I said, pumping my forearm up and down as his other hand grabbed my elbow.
“Decroux, then,” he said, nodding. He was nearly tall enough to look me in the eye, although we could hardly be called similar. Henderson was thin, almost gaunt for a man as tall as he was, though I could sense the whipcord muscle behind his handshake. There was a seriousness, an intense look to his eyes that seemed to stare right through me, like he was looking into my past as well as what I was presenting to him.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. He nodded and let go of my hand, taking a step back.
He wasn’t dressed like I had expected either. Most businesspeople I knew practically lived in their suits, their whole focus constrained by the pressed lines and dark colors. Henderson, on the other hand, had clearly made his business his life by other means. I could see dirt on his arm where his quick washing hadn’t removed it, and clay and rock stains on his jeans.
“Come on into my office,” he said, waving his hand and turning towards the door behind the secretary’s desk. I followed him in, mouthing a silent thank you at her as I passed. She smiled, and I made a mental note to ask for her name before I left.
Henderson’s office was almost as spartan as the waiting room. A plain white desk that looked suspiciously similar to his secretary’s sat by the wall, its top crowded with stacks of paper and manila envelopes. The chair behind it looked like any other office chair, nothing like the expensive, all-option chairs I’d seen clients back east use. He dropped into it with a barely audible sigh, the metal creaking as he leaned back, a sound I never would have heard out east. Even the walls were bare, occupied by nothing but beige metal file cabinets. The only thing that looked even slightly out-of-place was the wooden photo frame on his desk, simply by virtue of being a contrasting color from the rest of the room.
“So,” he said, motioning for me to sit in one of the plush chairs opposite his desk. They were worn, with scratches faintly visible in the fake leather. I took a seat, letting myself relax a little bit more than I normally would have. “What can I help you with?”
“Well,” I said, folding my hands together and leaning forward. “I’m here because I’m looking for someone, and because someone else seems to be looking for him, as well.” Henderson’s friendly face began to fade, switching to a tired expression that said I would need to keep my intrusion to a minimum. That was a look I was familiar with from a businessman.
“His name’s Jacob Rocke,” I said. At the mention of Rocke’s name, Henderson’s expression took on an even more decidedly negative cast, and I hurried my words along. “I’m not here to ask if he or I can poke around your property. Instead, I just wanted to know what he’d asked you, and if he’d given any reasons you might remember. He’s gone missing.”
Henderson’s expression jumped, eyebrows rising in surprise.
“In addition,” I added before he could say anything, “I also understand that one of your employees is also missing, and I was wondering if you might know why my friend
seems to be the prime suspect in that.” I leaned back, unfolding my hands as a sign that I was ready for him to speak.
“You’ve been talking to Sheriff Hanks, then,” Henderson said, leaning forward and crossing his hands in front of him, subconsciously mirroring the position I had just been in.
I nodded.
“I told Hanks about Mr. Rocke simply because I knew he came to me after speaking with David,” he said, his smooth voice now carrying only the faintest hint of the slight southwest tang it had held when he’d first spoken. He was in full business mode, now. “Mr. Rocke was rather annoyed when I told him we would not be giving him access to company property. He grew quite vocal about it.” Even Henderson’s attitude had changed, his words slicker than the friendly greeting he’d given me a moment ago.
“That doesn’t sound like Rocke,” I said, shaking my head. “The only time I’ve ever seen him get vocal was when there was a lot at stake.”
“Well, then perhaps he had an inflated opinion of his time,” Henderson said. “Regardless, when someone tells me he won’t let me stand in his way, and one of my employees vanishes a few days later—”
“Rocke disappeared around the same time,” I said, interrupting his explanation. “No one has seen him since two nights ago.”
“Personally, that doesn’t make me feel any more relaxed,” Henderson said with a shake of his head. “It could mean that he took his anger out on my employee and is on the run—”
“I see where you’re going with this,” I interrupted once more, my ire rising a little bit. “But since he left his car and everything else behind when he disappeared, I’m a lot more inclined to think that isn’t the case.”
“Well, maybe the Wraith got him, then,” Henderson said, not even trying to hide his obvious displeasure. “At least my company has some deniability that way, since I warned him very clearly not to go wandering onto our land.”
“The Wraith?” I asked.
Henderson rolled his eyes and sighed. “Look, Mr. Decroux,” he said, spreading his hands. “Hear me out, if you will.” He paused, giving me an expectant look, and I nodded.
“I grew up in Silver Dreams,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a creak. “My great-great-grandfather founded Henderson Mining after the Civil War. He bought the land, founded the town, and was determined to strike it rich. The company has been in my family’s hands ever since. The town revolves around this company. If Henderson Mining ceases to exist, so will Silver Dreams.”
His shoulders slumping slightly. “Think about that for a moment,” he said. “This mine has been my family’s sole drive for over a century. Silver Dreams exists because the mine exists. Almost everyone in this town counts on the mine for work. For an income.”
“It’s always been touch-and-go, hasn’t it?” I asked. Henderson nodded.
“It has,” he admitted, his chair squeaking again as he stood. “My great-great-grandfather knew enough about what he was doing to find a deposit of silver, but not enough to find a vein. There’s silver under our feet, just not very much. Just enough for the mine to barely survive from year-to-year.”
“Which means that every choice in the company matters,” he said as he paced back and forth behind his desk. His words sounded rote, although I had no doubt that they were true. “This company has survived and continues to survive on nothing short of determination, hard work, and a good bit of luck. Technically, we are one of the least profitable mines in the world that actually remains profitable.”
“Now,” he said, dropping into his chair once more. “Let me tell you something else: The country here? It’s dangerous. You head further south from here, and you’ll run into slot canyons, caves, all sorts of hazardous country. The local tribes that used to live in this area said it was cursed, because occasionally someone would just wander off into the desert and never come back. Now, you take that kind of country and combine it with a silver mining operation?” he asked, shaking his head. “One that’s digging deep underground and creating all sorts of dangerous mineshafts? You get a volatile mix of very dangerous country.”
“Which is why half the valley is behind a chain-link fence,” I said, thinking of my drive in.
“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Sure, we can dynamite old shafts, close them up, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t miss one. Or there could be a natural cave. Or a sinkhole, or any number of other random dangers.” He leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. “One of the most profitable years in history for this company was 1956,” he said, his voice low. “My grandfather successfully purchased new land from the state, a tract with quite a rich silver deposit on it. That same year three teenagers wandered one of the old shafts—despite the warnings—and were killed in a cave-in. One of those teens was from out of state, and his family sued. It nearly destroyed the town. The company was almost bankrupted.”
“Since then,” he said, his face almost expressionless, “we’ve set up miles of fencing, dynamited dozens of old shafts, put up warning signs at all the public places, handed out reminders, and done as much as we can to keep ourselves free of liability.”
“Makes sense, but how does the Wraith fit into all this?’” I asked.
“The Wraith?” Henderson shook his head. “The Wraith is an urban legend, a myth. It’s a story parents tell their kids to keep them from wandering into the desert.”
“So what is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Henderson said, shaking his head again. “When my family first built the mine, the local natives warned my great-great-grandfather that the land was cursed. Not cursed enough for them to move away, but cursed all the same. So far, the only evidence of a curse we’ve seen is not finding what we hope to on our mineral surveys.”
“Anyway,” he said, smiling slightly. “Since people go missing around here all the time, someone started a rumor that it was a ‘Wraith’ taking people in because of the ‘ancient curse.’ The school kids use it to scare one another, dare each other, stuff like that, you know? Even I heard the stories growing up. It’s just a way for everyone to rationalize how dangerous the desert is. Someone goes missing, and it’s the Wraith.” The smile faded. “If they can’t pin it on us, that is.”
“That happens?”
He nodded. “Ever since we lost the first court case, yes. So when someone like your friend comes in here trying to get access to our land, you’ll understand why I say no.”
He had a point. “Alright, fair enough. What about the land you don’t own?”
“Fair game, but I wouldn’t advise it,” Henderson said, shaking his head. “Like I said, it’s dangerous out there. You’d best stay close to town. If you’re determined, well, I’d still advise against it, but if we find you on company land, you’re history.”
I decided not to point out any alternate meaning to his phrasing. “Getting back on topic then, was there a reason you decided to tell Hanks you thought Rocke was responsible for David Jefferson’s disappearance?”
“I never suggested he was responsible,” Henderson said quickly—a little too quickly for my tastes. “I only told the sheriff that I knew David was meeting with your friend. I didn’t know your Mr. Rocke had disappeared as well.”
“Do you mind if I ask another question?” I said, switching tactics. Henderson nodded, but glanced down at his wrist. “Do you think there’s a chance that a chupacabra could be hiding out in one of your old mine shafts?”
Henderson shook his head with a dry chuckle. “No,” he said, “and I’ll tell you why. Like I told your friend, these aren’t mines like you think. They go down a ways, and there’s lots of noise, ground vibrations. Old shafts are a bit more like you see in the movies, but we’ve closed most of those. The ones left are unstable enough that nothing is very safe. No smart creature—which I’m guessing a chupacabra is, since they’ve been smart enough not to get caught for this long—would spend time in those mines. No, what you’re looking for is caves. Probably on the other side of the valley, aw
ay from all the noise and danger. Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’s about all time I have for you today. I’ve still got a lot to do if I’m going to keep this company afloat.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled that you sent your friend after mine,” I said, rising from my seat. “But it would be rude not to thank you for your time.” I extended my hand across the desk, and Henderson took it, although his handshake didn’t feel quite so warm the second time. “I’ll see myself out,” I said, glancing down over the surface of the desk. I felt Henderson’s hand tighten in response.
“Good-bye, Mr. Decroux,” he said, shoving my hand away a bit forcefully, the more sophisticated tone once again back in his voice. I decided I didn’t like it.
“Yeah,” I said, as I turned away. “Thanks.” I walked out of his office, taking slow, deliberate steps as I went. Henderson’s secretary was still at her desk when I opened the door, the rapid-fire clack of keyboard keys sounding through the room like pistol-shots. As soon as the door to Henderson’s office clicked shut behind, me the typing slowed, then stopped.
“Here,” she said, one hand holding up a stiff, folded piece of paper. “It’ll save you digging through city records.”
“Thanks.” I plucked it from her hand and glanced at it. It looked like the kind of map you’d find at a tour guide location, made of thick, inflexible paper. Lines had been drawn on it in bright green marker. A survey map, maybe?
“Don’t mention it,” she said, still not looking at me. “Literally. I like my job.”
“Then you have a good day, Miss … ?”
“Valons. Cynthia Valons.”
“Have a good day then, Ms. Valons,” I said, resuming my way to the door. “And again, thanks.” She didn’t reply. I opened the door and once again stepped into the hot, New Mexican sun.
Dead Silver Page 9
