Quicksilver (The Forensic Geology Series, Prequel) (6 page)

The Shelburne family offshoot, according to the map, zigzagged through this neighborhood.

What I did see, once again, was a flash of something brown, off in the far side of the pit. And then, deer-like, it bolted. And then Shelburne shouted
Henry
and a clap of thunder came in reply and the wind picked up and a few fat raindrops fell.

And then ceased.

We continued down the trail.

Alice hiking down into the rabbit hole.

F
ive hundred feet down, we bottomed out.

If I had not known a mountain once stood here I would not have known this was a manufactured landscape.

The hosed-out world of the pit was now jungly, bristling with pines and alders and willows and brush that criss-crossed in a maze that could screen an army of hikers.

The soil was fine-grained colluvium eroded from above, with lenses of pebbly gravel and clay. I looked for, and did not see, footprints.

We crossed a little stream—runoff, I presumed, from the upcanyon watershed. The stream wandered into a thicket of brush.

I wondered if there was a trail down here. I had no idea which way to go.

Shelburne did. As ever, he took the lead and we followed and damned if he didn’t discover a path.

We passed through a tunnel of pines and emerged into a small clearing where old mining equipment was on display. My attention caught on the huge lengths of rusted pipe, jumbled like pick-up sticks. I stopped, stared. A man could hide inside that pipe.

Shelburne saw me looking. “He hates enclosed spaces.”

My Henry would have been in there.

“Not hiding in the water cannon, either.”

Beyond the pipes was a giant rusted cannon that looked like something out of a Civil War textbook. I still had to wrap my head around the idea that it had shot water, not iron.

“Let’s go,” Shelburne said.

Walter held up a hand. “A moment.” He took off his pack and rummaged for his parka.

I looked at a long wooden open-top box set upon a frame.

Shelburne saw me looking. “
That
, he liked. It’s a sluice box. Miners ran a slurry of water and gravel through it. The riffles trapped the heavy grains of gold. The lighter stuff, they trapped with mercury. The metals mix into an amalgam. Bonded like brothers—as my dad liked to say.” Shelburne snagged his water bottle. He toasted the sluice. “Dad let us play here. He brought vials of mercury and a baggie of gold dust. And a bottle of water. The gold was the prize. The mercury the waste.” Shelburne drank.

I wondered if Dad put it that way to his sons.
Robert, you’re the prize. Henry, you’re waste
.

I drifted over to the sluice box. I glimpsed something inside, caught between riffles. Something silvery. I thought, if that’s a drop of mercury in there right now, then Henry Shelburne AKA Quicksilver was playing some goddamn stupid game.

I moved for a closer look. It had disappeared. I blinked. Glint of sunlight on a nailhead or something. Now you see it, now you don’t. Sunlight’s playing hide and seek.

“Here’s more numbers for you,” Shelburne said. “The miners used ten pounds of mercury for every foot of sluice. Eighty thousand pounds a year. Thirty percent of it washed away. Poof! I’d never green-light a project with that level of waste.”

I thought, he’s got a lot of numbers at the ready. Who remembers precise numbers like that? Especially when you learned this stuff as a kid. If it were me, I’d just say the miners put a shitload more mercury into the ground than they took out in gold.

Shelburne turned to Walter. “Not Dogtown, hey?”

“No,” Walter said. He shouldered his backpack. Zipped his parka. “Rather, the other extreme.”

I felt I ought to say something to my partner. Yeah, you fell in love with a Hollywood facade and the reality is your grown-up hobby has a real dark history but I understand that you can love something in the whole and yet not love every part of it. I understand why you wanted to avoid this place. And I’m certainly no paragon of consistency. I’m an environmentalist who uses paper towels wantonly. Who lives the pure life?

I said, “Who lives the pure life?”

Both Shelburne and Walter looked at me in some surprise.

I turned away. My field of view altered a smidge. Enough to get a fresh look into the sluice box, to see that the
something silvery
that had caught my eye wasn’t a nailhead. It was a dime.

I said, “Somebody dropped a dime.”

Shelburne was suddenly beside me, hands braced on the rough rim of the sluice box. Strong hands. Manicured. City-boy hands on rough wood. Fingers flexed. Knuckles white.

Walter joined us. “Somebody dropped a number of dimes.”

I looked further. Dimes scattered throughout the sluice box. All of them shiny. Innocent of dust. How long could a dime lay in a sluice box before acquiring at least a freckling of dust? Hours? If that.

Shelburne picked up a dime.

Walter said, “Is this significant?”

Shelburne spun. Scanning the trees around the clearing. “Give me a minute,” he said. Voice hoarse. Choked. He jammed his water bottle into the pocket and shoved off. Just short of a run.

Walter and I stood flatfooted. A minute to do
what
?

“We don’t want to lose him,” Walter said.

Hell no, we sure didn’t want to lose him, not down here in this jungle. We plunged back into the maze where Shelburne had disappeared.

But we had already fallen behind. Although I could hear him rustling through the vegetation up ahead, I could not see him. No means of judging distance, no map to consult because quite clearly the way through the maze altered season by season as the underbrush crept this way and that. I shouted “
wait
” and Shelburne somewhere up ahead muttered something in reply but it did not matter because his voice was the clue and so I followed the bushwhacked path to the left instead of to the right. I heard Walter behind me, the rock hammer and trenching tool tied to his pack rattling like coins in a pocket. Like dropped dimes. Only they weren’t dropped, right? They were placed, scattered throughout the sluice box so as not to be missed.
Henry
placed them. Who else? And spooked his brother in the bargain.

And now as I crashed through the woods my sense of smell kicked in. My nose stung. There was that odd odor, much stronger now than when I’d first sniffed it hiking up the ego-blazed trail into the Shelburne family neighborhood. It was a medicinal smell. It was like bitter greens I’d once boiled to oblivion. It had an undercurrent of rotting sweet fruit. I turned to Walter and said “what’s that stink?” but he was too far back to hear me or too short on breath to reply.

And then I broke free of the willow jungle and waded hip-deep into cattails and I saw Shelburne ahead, on the far side of a stinking pond red with iron-rich silt.

He was wading through a field of brush, peering into a thicket of pines beyond.

I shouted.

He stiffened. Turned. Lifted a hand to us.

We skirted the pond and joined him.

I expelled the words. “What. The. Hell?”

“I thought....” He passed a hand across his eyes. “Thought I’d find Henry.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.”

“But the dimes said he came this way?”

“Yes.”

Walter said, “Call for him.”

“Haven’t I been? For the past three hours?” Shelburne lifted his palms. “Fine, I’ll shout my fool head off.
Henry Henry Henry Henry!
”

There was no reply.

Shelburne glanced up. Around.

I followed suit, looking up to the rim of the pit. There were a dozen viewpoints. More. I looked around us. Jungle. Woods.

Walter said, “And if he’s watching?”

“Christ.” Shelburne flashed a grim smile. Shook his head. “Christ, Henry.” Shelburne suddenly shouted to the sky, “
You want the dog and pony show
?”

There was no reply.

Walter said, thinly, “Why don’t you give
us
the dog and pony show?”

After a long moment Shelburne said, “Why not?”

Walter folded his arms.

“It starts with the dime,” Shelburne said. “Did you ever hear the expression
you’re on my dime
? Dad loved that expression. He wasn’t talking allowance, he was talking
I own you
.” Shelburne unbuckled his hip belt. “So of course Henry and I would challenge each other to do outrageous shit, betting a dime on it. In particular, there was the time I flicked the dime into the sluice box, making a particular outrageous bet.”

“In what sense outrageous?”

Shelburne slipped his pack off one shoulder and slid it around to access the stash pocket. He retrieved something. Shouldered the pack.

I said, “What’s in your hand?”

He displayed a box of matches.

“Good God man,” Walter said, “you’re standing in mountain misery.”

I looked at the brush, some kind of groundcover, low-lying ferns. My nose stung. It had not stopped stinging since I’d crashed through the maze. Now I realized I’d found the source of the odd odor. It came from the ferns.

“That’s the point,” Shelburne said. “The thing about mountain misery is this time of year its leaves are coated with resin. Flammable as hell.”

I said, “Are you out of your mind?”

“Far from it. There’s a pond behind you. But it won’t be necessary. If I may?”

Walter gave a brusque nod.

“Here’s how it works. You’ve got two boys pretty much brought up in the wild. Daring each other to do the outrageous. You’ve got a father who leaves them alone with dangerous toys. Some dads give their boys boxing gloves to pound out the rivalry. Ours gave us all this. So we made bets. Always a dime.” He paused and made a slow survey of the jungle, of the rim. Then his focus snapped back to us. “Let’s pretend Henry is standing here with me in the misery. We’re facing each other. Use your imagination.”

I didn’t need to. Henry was parked in my mind.

“Here’s how it played,” Shelburne said. “We flipped the dime to see who went first. I chose heads. The dime landed heads-up. I went first.” Shelburne lit a match. He watched it burn down. When the flame neared his fingers he blew it out. He snapped the matchstick in half and put it in his pocket. He took another match from the box. “Henry’s turn.” Shelburne lit the second match. “I’m playing Henry here, of course.” Shelburne watched the match burn down. Blew it out. Snapped it, pocketed it.

I watched, uneasy. If Henry was watching, what was he thinking?

Shelburne took out a third match. “My turn again.” He lit the match. “Mind you, we went through a lot of matches before we got up the nerve to finish the game. But I’m going to fast forward to the last turn. My turn.” He watched the match burn down. Before the flame could lick his skin he opened his fingers and let the match drop. It fell onto a netting of fern. There was a tiny explosion, and then a tiny flame licked along the adjacent ferns in a delicate dance. Oily black smoke curled up.

Reflexively, I reached for my water bottle.

Before I could unscrew the cap, Shelburne stomped out the tiny conflagration.

When the fire was fully extinguished, I said, “Just to be sure I’ve got this straight—which one of you tried to set the forest on fire?”

“I did. Henry flinched. Blew out his match.”

The smell of rotting overcooked ferns turned my stomach. I felt a bit like Alice navigating her inside-out world. Henry Shelburne was supposed to be the mercurial kid, the one who didn’t understand limits, but now Robert Shelburne was demonstrating the reverse.

Robert Shelburne waded out of the mountain misery. His boots and pant cuffs were streaked with pitchy black resin. “By the way, the game wasn’t
playing with fire
. It was
reclaiming the gold
.”

Walter leaned in. “What do you mean?”

“Right around here was a remainder of the sluiceway system. Henry and I found it, nearly overgrown with mountain misery. Full of sediment, and the sediment was laced with amalgam.” He glanced at me. “The gold-mercury mix.”

I remembered. Bonded like brothers.

“You went after the gold,” Walter said.

“We went after the gold,” Shelburne agreed. “Bled off the mercury with fire.”

“
You vaporized the mercury
?”

“We vaporized the mercury.”

Walter shook his head.

I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“We stayed upwind. No harm done.”

“No
harm
? Does your brother not have mercury poisoning?”

Shelburne shot me a hard look. “No harm that day.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning no harm
that
day but I put an idea in my brother’s head. He took it from there. He kept on messing around with mercury, on his own. Burning old riffle blocks impregnated with amalgam. Panning slugs of amalgam from the rivers and then cooking them over an open fire to separate out the gold. And Henry thought he could keep dancing away from the vapor. More like dancing with the devil.”

I shook my head.

“And now,” Shelburne said, “he leaves me the dimes. You asked about the message? Blame. Short and sweet. And I get it.” He shouted once again, to the sky, “
I get it, Bro
.”

I said, suddenly chilled, “So what does he want?”

“Fuck if I know. Apology? Admission of guilt?”

First I’d heard Robert Shelburne use that particular expletive. First I’d seen him lose any manner of control. I took note.

Walter said, “Is there a chance he wants revenge? To harm you?”

“He’s had years to nurse that grudge. He could have sent me a bucket of dimes a hundred times over.”

“Then why now?”

“My best guess? Culmination. A lifetime of failures. Dad dies. Henry’s doing his last shot at finding the legacy. And maybe he’s tying up loose ends.” Shelburne suddenly grinned, tight. “Don’t worry. He’s not a violent man. If he wants to settle a grudge with me, it’ll be just that. The two of us. All I need from you is to get me to him. I’ll take it from there.”

“Still,” I said, “you’re dealing with that chaotic mind.”