Quicksilver (The Forensic Geology Series, Prequel) by Toni Dwiggins Page A
Authors: Toni Dwiggins
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an experienced outdoorsman like Henry Shelburne had not used sunscreen. His peeling nose—like the preposterous earflaps—made him look like a kid. I ignored that.
Robert Shelburne’s kid brother. Not mine.
Henry let go of the gun with his right hand and lifted it, gesturing at the tunnel.
I stared at his hand. The palm was pink, peeling, and I got a sick understanding that we weren’t talking sunburn here. Jesus Henry, what have you been into?
Robert suddenly lunged.
Quick as a snake strike, Henry had both hands on the Glock, had the gun aimed at his brother’s head.
Robert raised his own hands. “Chill Bro.”
I said quickly,“I’m going in.”
Henry pulled his arms into his chest, bracing his elbows, steadying his aim. “Thank you.”
Cautiously, I answered, “You’re welcome.”
And so now it became my show. I assumed I didn’t need a gas detector, or Robert would not have emerged from the tunnel alive. I started for the tunnel. Henry stopped me. Told me to leave behind my pack. Told me to take only my tools. Told me to bring him a sample. I rummaged in my pack and got the field kit and headlamp, fitted the headband, and started once more for the tunnel.
As I passed into the mouth I heard Henry call to me, “Go all the way.”
15
A ll the way where ?
The tunnel was black as a catacomb.
I snapped on my headlamp and the bedrock lit up. Bedrock walls, bedrock ceiling, bedrock floor, a sturdy incursion into the mountainside, a strong tunnel that needed no timbering, a tunnel with drill holes in the ceiling to ventilate, the only sort of tunnel I felt remotely comfortable traversing. When my eyes had adjusted and my nerves settled, I identified the bedrock as metamorphic slate.
As far ahead as I could see, the tunnel ran straight.
Perhaps somewhere farther ahead there were side branches, offshoots, whatever it was they were called in a mine, a term Walter would know. But Walter was outside facing a Glock and counting on me to return with something shiny and pretty to satisfy Henry. A nice nugget. Sure thing.
All I need do was go all the way, wherever that way led me.
I was breathing more rapidly, leg muscles working a little harder, and I realized that the tunnel was angling upward. I assumed the tunnel-builders had done that on purpose so that any water that seeped in through the rock would drain out.
Good idea.
My body settled into a rhythm, releasing my mind to dwell on the question at hand.
How did Henry know where all the way led? He didn’t like enclosed spaces. And how would he know how far I went?
And, further, what did he expect me to find?
Quite clearly this tunnel was working its way into the hillside toward the buried river channel whose upper gravel reaches I had glimpsed on the ridge top. Clever, those miners. If you can’t hose out a mountain to get to the gold, tunnel your way. One way or another they’d found the way. One way or another those ancient Eocene river channels had condemned this countryside to an extreme makeover.
And that bugged me, because it should have bugged Henry.
Presumably he wasn’t looking for hosed-out mine pits or well-tunneled hills. Presumably he was looking for a site lost since his grandfather’s time, a site that nobody but nobody had since seen. Was he not disappointed to find that Notch Valley had already been mined? Walter sure was. And Henry, I thought, should have been beyond disappointed. Should have been devastated.
Another failure for Quicksilver.
So why was he so anxious to have me go into this well-tunneled hill? If there was something legend-worthy in here, it would already have been found.
Poor Henry.
Henry with his peeling pink palms gripping the black and silver Glock.
My sympathy evaporated.
Several hundred feet into the tunnel, the walls abruptly changed.
The bedrock was now overlain by gravel. I played my light upon the stuff. It was mostly quartz and slate, cemented in clay and sand. I ran my fingers along the
Robert Shelburne’s kid brother. Not mine.
Henry let go of the gun with his right hand and lifted it, gesturing at the tunnel.
I stared at his hand. The palm was pink, peeling, and I got a sick understanding that we weren’t talking sunburn here. Jesus Henry, what have you been into?
Robert suddenly lunged.
Quick as a snake strike, Henry had both hands on the Glock, had the gun aimed at his brother’s head.
Robert raised his own hands. “Chill Bro.”
I said quickly,“I’m going in.”
Henry pulled his arms into his chest, bracing his elbows, steadying his aim. “Thank you.”
Cautiously, I answered, “You’re welcome.”
And so now it became my show. I assumed I didn’t need a gas detector, or Robert would not have emerged from the tunnel alive. I started for the tunnel. Henry stopped me. Told me to leave behind my pack. Told me to take only my tools. Told me to bring him a sample. I rummaged in my pack and got the field kit and headlamp, fitted the headband, and started once more for the tunnel.
As I passed into the mouth I heard Henry call to me, “Go all the way.”
15
A ll the way where ?
The tunnel was black as a catacomb.
I snapped on my headlamp and the bedrock lit up. Bedrock walls, bedrock ceiling, bedrock floor, a sturdy incursion into the mountainside, a strong tunnel that needed no timbering, a tunnel with drill holes in the ceiling to ventilate, the only sort of tunnel I felt remotely comfortable traversing. When my eyes had adjusted and my nerves settled, I identified the bedrock as metamorphic slate.
As far ahead as I could see, the tunnel ran straight.
Perhaps somewhere farther ahead there were side branches, offshoots, whatever it was they were called in a mine, a term Walter would know. But Walter was outside facing a Glock and counting on me to return with something shiny and pretty to satisfy Henry. A nice nugget. Sure thing.
All I need do was go all the way, wherever that way led me.
I was breathing more rapidly, leg muscles working a little harder, and I realized that the tunnel was angling upward. I assumed the tunnel-builders had done that on purpose so that any water that seeped in through the rock would drain out.
Good idea.
My body settled into a rhythm, releasing my mind to dwell on the question at hand.
How did Henry know where all the way led? He didn’t like enclosed spaces. And how would he know how far I went?
And, further, what did he expect me to find?
Quite clearly this tunnel was working its way into the hillside toward the buried river channel whose upper gravel reaches I had glimpsed on the ridge top. Clever, those miners. If you can’t hose out a mountain to get to the gold, tunnel your way. One way or another they’d found the way. One way or another those ancient Eocene river channels had condemned this countryside to an extreme makeover.
And that bugged me, because it should have bugged Henry.
Presumably he wasn’t looking for hosed-out mine pits or well-tunneled hills. Presumably he was looking for a site lost since his grandfather’s time, a site that nobody but nobody had since seen. Was he not disappointed to find that Notch Valley had already been mined? Walter sure was. And Henry, I thought, should have been beyond disappointed. Should have been devastated.
Another failure for Quicksilver.
So why was he so anxious to have me go into this well-tunneled hill? If there was something legend-worthy in here, it would already have been found.
Poor Henry.
Henry with his peeling pink palms gripping the black and silver Glock.
My sympathy evaporated.
Several hundred feet into the tunnel, the walls abruptly changed.
The bedrock was now overlain by gravel. I played my light upon the stuff. It was mostly quartz and slate, cemented in clay and sand. I ran my fingers along the
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