Quicksilver (reissue)

by Toni Dwiggins

  I looked at Shelburne.

  He nodded. As he’d said.

  This tunnel cut into a sturdy stretch of the rockwall and, peeking inside, we saw that it was a straight-shot gullet, empty and dry.

  Walter retrieved the mini-G gas detector from my pack and went into the tunnel. He came out with an upraised thumb.

  We moved in.

  As we shucked our packs and dripping ponchos, I reflected on the fact that we’d taken shelter in a tunnel cut into the general neighborhood of the Shelburne family offshoot of the deep blue lead. If this were the Dogtown television show, we’d prospect the gullet and encounter the legendary blue.

  Instead, we huddled near the mouth and watched the flux of rain and then, shit, sheet lightning smeared the rock of the gorge.

  The Shoo Fly Formation lit up like Christmas.

  CHAPTER 22

  Thunder followed the lightning, as it does.

  Thunder echoed up and down the gorge like rocks kicked over a ridge.

  Thunder got right into the tunnel with us, a long-period rumble that I felt in my bones.

  I wondered where Henry sheltered—since he didn’t like enclosed spaces.

  We sat shivering until the thunder stopped and then in hurried consultation we chose to wait until the storm passed, or night came.

  An hour later, night came.

  Thunder and lightning were sporadic now but the rain did not falter.

  We unrolled our pads and sleeping bags on the hard rock floor. We removed our boots and rubbed our feet and put on clean socks and campsite sandals. Walter switched on our LED lantern and Shelburne unpacked his stove. Shelburne offered to heat water for all three of us, to reconstitute the freeze-dried glop that would pass as dinner. I didn’t envy his fancy stove. I appreciated his offer to do the work.

  I surprised myself by coming to a fresh appreciation of the man, working with his father to kindle a new company to clean up the mess in the gold country rivers, however problematic that job had turned out to be. Haunted by his father's horrific death in the river. Haunted by his brother's damaged life, admitting to his own role in Henry Shelburne's chaotic path.

  I watched Robert Shelburne lighting his fancy stove.

  Just because the man was good at making money, at using that money to kindle more money-making propositions, at spending money on pricey gear that I pretended not to covet—that did not make him a soulless dog-and-pony man.

  What did it make him?

  In the light of the lantern his angular features were softened. He looked almost boyish.

  Leave me long enough with a handsome guy with a sympathetic story and a lot of cool gear and I go soft-hearted and weak-kneed. If I allowed myself, I could kindle something resembling an attraction to the man.

  But, to what end? We were on a mission to find his suicidal brother.

  Not a freaking date night.

  I rubbed a hand across my eyes. I was drifting.

  I was deeply and thoroughly fatigued.

  So fatigued that it took me a good minute to process the steel clip hooked on the patched mesh pocket of Shelburne’s backpack. As he took the wide-mouth water bottle out of the patched pocket, the clip caught the low-angle light from Walter’s lantern. Steel gleamed. I stared at it. Wondering why Shelburne carried a bottle clip when he didn’t clip his bottle to his belt. Wondering if the steel edge had caught the mesh at some point, tearing it, necessitating the patch. Thinking, no, the clip was not in position to do that. To tear the mesh, the clip would need to be cinched around the neck of the bottle, edged toward the mesh. But why carry a bottle with the clip attached in a backpack pocket? The whole point of the clip is to clip the bottle to your belt. Or to a D-ring on your shoulder strap.

  I watched Shelburne pour water into the cook pot on top of the stove.

  I listened to the hiss of the little gas flame.

  Nothing to do but wait for the water to boil. And obsess over the water-bottle clip.

  Date night forgotten.

  Five minutes later we were eating our glop. Shrimp Creole for Shelburne. Chili Mac With Beef for Walter and me. I suspected it all tasted the same. If this were the Dogtown TV show we’d be eating canned beans and glad for the grub.

  The rain hardened and lightning and thunder returned, as if they’d taken a break and were now refreshed.

  Deeply and thoroughly fatigued, we all three moved to our sleeping bags.

  Walter switched off the lantern.

  Like some kind of weird slumber party. Normally I sleep alone in my tent. Normally I sleep in as little as possible but the cold and the company got my attention and I did not want to embarrass Walter or, good grief, to flash Robert Shelburne. I slipped out of my Crocs and stripped down to a T-shirt and pulled on silk long underwear, suitably modest. I grabbed my poncho and ventured just outside the tunnel to pee. No need for a flashlight. Lightning lit my way.

  Walter and Shelburne took their turns.

  Chilled, I wormed into my sleeping bag and shivered until body heat flared and my thoughts fuzzed.

  Next thing I knew I was back at the bedrock hump across the Yuba watching lightning bolts duel. Rain like needles. Me, sodden. Benumbed on the gravel bar. Electricity in the air. The taste of ozone. Me, thinking I’m sticking up like a sore thumb on this flat river. And then a lightning bolt the size of Nevada struck the water, speared down to the bed of the river and it brought up on the point of its spear a silver heart. It quivered in front of me. I put out my finger to touch it. Who can resist? And then my hand went straight through the heart and the quicksilver wrapped my wrist. Flashing in the glow of the lightning storm, it thinned, now looking like a steel bottle clip.

  Sometime later I thought I heard bees. I woke.

  Snug in my sleeping bag, water sampling on my mind.

  Hydrology 101 back in college—you attach the specimen bottle to the sampling pole with a steel clip and then dip it in the water to grab the sample. For that class, I’d been sampling sediment load. The equipment I’d used had been designed for the task. Shelburne’s steel clip and wide-mouth bottle would be an improvisation, but doable.

  I sat up straight.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was morning. Early light, silvered. Foggy.

  Not enough light to allow me to re-examine Shelburne’s steel clip. Enough light, though, to make out his hunched form at the mouth of the tunnel, up there watching the day break. Humming to himself.

  Sounded like bees.

  I wetted my lips. My mouth was cottony, tasting of ozone. I cleared my throat, to ask Shelburne if he himself had done some water sampling on those site scouts he’d mentioned. His father had been out water sampling when he’d had his heart attack. Alone, Shelburne had said. Hadn’t he?

  I said, “Hey.”

  Shelburne didn’t hear me. Probably could not hear me over the drum roll of Walter snoring.

  Good thing, because I didn’t know how to phrase my question without accusing Shelburne of lying. Were you in Sacramento when your father died? Or did I misremember the timing?

  I shivered. I pulled the sleeping bag up to my neck. I noticed that Shelburne was cold, as well. He’d put on a wool cap, yanked down over his ears. He wore a puffy parka, one I hadn’t yet seen. A down parka was not recommended in the rain. Rain had stopped, though, thank you very much.

  If my backpack was in reach I’d drag it close and dig out my own warm vest, not down but well insulated.

  Walter turned over, muffling his snores.

  Thoroughly chilled, fully awake now, I figured I’d just ask about the timing. Clarify things.

  I cleared my throat, loud. “Good morning.”

  Shelburne turned. Just dipped a shoulder and angled his head. Acknowledgment. A listening man. In profile, backlit, he looked like he’d been sketched—an artist’s quick strokes, just framing the man. But, I now noticed, the artist got the nose wrong. It should be stronger, more hawk-like.

  I went very cold.

  It wasn't Robert
Shelburne.

  CHAPTER 23

  Two things, in quick succession:

  I said shit and Walter stirred.

  I scanned the tunnel and saw that Robert Shelburne’s sleeping bag was empty.

  The figure at the mouth of the tunnel did not move. Not an inch. Shoulder still dipped. Head still angled.

  Holy holy shit.

  I tried to exit my sleeping bag. Too quick. Entangling myself. Making struggling noises.

  Walter slowly sat up. Looking at me. What?

  I nodded toward the entrance.

  Walter turned to look.

  The figure, unmoving, carved there by the artist for all eternity, watched us in turn. “How do you do?” he said. And then when we did not respond, “I do poorly.”

  His voice was soft, reserved. Frugal.

  ~ ~ ~

  Time passed. Seconds most likely. Possibly a full minute. The light outside intensified, as if an hour had passed and full morning had bloomed. A trick of radiating sunlight, tearing a hole in the fog. A matter of seconds.

  I said, “Henry?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  Walter spoke. “Henry Shelburne.”

  I thought perhaps Walter’s use of the surname was for my benefit, as if Walter thought I had just awakened, myself, and was in that exit-mode from the dream world where reality is conditional, as if I had another Henry in mind, one only accessed in memory.

  “We have five minutes,” the figure said. Henry Shelburne said, in his soft parsimonious voice. He shifted slightly, crooking his left leg so that he could more fully look at us. “I can’t come in.”

  Walter turned on the lantern.

  Henry Shelburne was still backlit by the day outside but now frontlit, as well, by the cool LED glow of the lantern. I could see that his cap was Sherpa-style, with earflaps. I could make out the color of the cap and parka: brown. Disappearing-phantom-in-the-woods brown. I could just make out his features. He looked remarkably like the wet-combed teenager from the Old West photograph. But, in this light, the marks of the years would not be apparent. What was apparent was his left hand gripping his thigh.

  In the photo, I recalled, in which Henry sat in the saloon chair, his left thigh had been strapped to a holster. No holster, now. No fake six-shooter. Just faded jeans encasing that thigh. Jeans, down parka, wool hat. Muddied hiking boots. Henry Shelburne looked like any other hiker on a foggy mountain morning. I tried to wrap my mind around this new Henry, the real deal, not the fragile teenager in the photo.

  Walter said, “How do you do, son. My name is Walter Shaws and my associate here is Cassie Oldfield. We’re geologists in the employ of your brother, who has been searching for you. Who is extremely concerned about your welfare. But I expect you know all that.”

  Henry Shelburne’s hand tightened on his thigh.

  “I’m quite sorry to hear that you’re doing poorly,” Walter said. “How can we help?”

  “You helped,” Henry said.

  Walter nodded. “I assume you mean in the sense of leading your brother here.”

  “Yes, I mean that.” Henry very slightly angled his head toward the canyon outside. “That was resourceful, Robert.”

  I looked beyond Henry but if Robert Shelburne was out there he was masked in the fog. Henry’s thought processes were...off. Chaotic, as Robert had said. Still, the word resourceful. The phrasing. Henry Shelburne was well-spoken. I didn’t know why that surprised me. A chaotic mind did not mean an ignorant mind.

  I said, “What did you mean by we have five minutes?”

  Henry lifted his left arm. His parka sleeve was too short. It rode up. He rotated his arm and looked at his wrist, as if demonstrating the concept of telling time. There was no wristwatch on his wrist. His wrist was still stick-thin.

  Off, chaotic, confused? Or just making a point? I asked, “What happens in five minutes?”

  His left hand began to tremble. The tremor traveled up his arm.

  Neurological effect, I assumed, of mercury poisoning. Yeah, he was doing poorly.

  He caught me staring and jerked his hand back down to clutch his thigh. He said, “We need to travel.”

  “Travel where?”

  “You go home. I go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Where Robert is waiting.”

  I asked, “Where is Robert waiting?”

  “Out there.”

  “He left his gear behind.”

  “He doesn’t need it right now.”

  “Why doesn’t he come back in and tell us himself?”

  “He wants you to see I am doing well.”

  Walter spoke. “You just told us you’re doing poorly.”

  Henry Shelburne put his hands to his head. His fingers splayed across his temples. “You need to stop following. From now on. You need to stop looking for... for the black rock. For the black rock. I lost the word.” He closed his eyes. “It’s in the microscope, Henry. Look Henry. And there’s a cross. What is that called? Look it up Henry, look it up Henry. It’s a black rock and there’s a white crystal with a black cross. The cross is beautiful, it’s like a sign to show the way...”

  Like a crusade, I thought.

  “...it’s called a ...what is that?” He drummed his fingers on his temples. “Look it up Henry, it’s...”

  “It’s called chiastolite,” I said. “Henry.”

  His fingers stilled. He opened his eyes and stared at me. “Yes, it is.”

  Walter said, “And the black rock is called hornfels.”

  Henry slammed his hands down onto the floor of the tunnel and twisted his body to face Walter full-on. “I know that.”

  “Take it easy,” Walter said.

  Very slowly, Henry Shelburne pushed himself backward, pushing down on the floor to lever his body up, uncoiling with surprising control, given the tremors in his hands when he’d unloosed them. He stood now at the mouth of the tunnel and he shoved his hands into his parka pockets and gave a little nod in our direction, into the tunnel, a nod that I read to say I’m outta there. I’m free.

  And then I thought, watch yourself lady. Don’t read things into Henry Shelburne.

  Don’t act as if you know him.

  CHAPTER 24

  By the time Walter and I had extracted ourselves from our sleeping bags and scuttled up to the entrance of the tunnel there was nothing to see outside but the fog-tricked walls of Shoo Fly Canyon.

  We stood shivering, me in my silkies and Walter in his thermals.

  “We should consider our options,” Walter said.

  “First things first,” I said. “Do we think Henry is armed?”

  “My call, it’s possible.”

  “I concur. That parka could be hiding a belt holster.”

  “In which case,” Walter said, “the question is whether Robert went with him willingly, or at gunpoint.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Arguing in favor of gunpoint, that would explain why Robert didn’t wake us and tell us he was going.”

  I said, “On the other hand, if he went willingly, the question is why he didn’t wake us, thank us, tell us to go home and the check will be in the mail.”

  “Do you have an answer in mind?”

  “Occam’s razor,” I said. “The simplest explanation—Robert was honoring his brother’s wishes. Henry just made it clear he doesn’t want us to join them. Think it through. Henry shows up—unarmed in my scenario—and wakes his brother. I know, he doesn’t like enclosed spaces, but maybe he gathers his courage and just dashes inside. Or maybe he stands at the entrance and calls to Robert.”

  “And we slept through that?”

  “Evidently we did.”

  Walter considered. “And then, Henry waits for us to awaken so he can tell us to go home?”

  “I don’t think he waited. He was humming. That woke me up.”

  “Meanwhile,” Walter said, “Robert is waiting out there in the canyon. Willingly.”

  “In this scenario, yeah. Robert’s ac
hieved his stated goal. He’s reunited with his brother. He can take it from here.”

  “Take it where?”

  “To the hornfels site, I assume. Assuming that Henry already found it. Which I admit is a large assumption, given the state of his mind and the short time he’s had in the field. Then again, he evidently spends a lot of time in this neighborhood. And, he is an amateur geologist.”

  Walter snorted. Amateur.

  I was once an amateur geologist and I didn’t do so badly. Then again, I was working under Walter’s tutelage.

  “In a nutshell,” Walter said, “we have two scenarios. In the first, Robert left voluntarily. In which case, I would like a formal declaration that he no longer requires our services. In the second scenario, Henry took Robert at gunpoint and presumably secured him somewhere. In which case, our client is potentially at risk.”

  “In which case we should call for help.”

  “If we have cell service up here.”

  I unzipped the grab pocket of my pack and took out my cell phone and slipped on my Crocs and went out into the center of Shoo Fly Canyon and tried. No signal. I returned to Walter and said, “You’re right.”

  “We could hike downcanyon until we reach a place where we can make the call. And then we wait for...hours?” Walter grunted. “We don’t have hours to spare. Robert Shelburne may be at risk. Henry Shelburne is a very unstable young man. At risk, himself.”

  “Which means we don’t know what we’d be walking into.”

  Walter gave me a look. Eyes sharp as quartz. “We have a contract, Cassie. To save a life.”

  Actually I wasn’t so clear what page of the contract we were on. The page that said we’re trying to prevent Henry Shelburne from committing suicide? Having finally met the man, I had no idea if he was suicidal. I had no idea if he was homicidal, either. Or which damn scenario—if either—was the right one.

  Walter waited. The dance of who goes first.