Sonny knew why. Most Indians, even the half-breeds, had an affinity for what the land had to say. After forty years in the desert, Sonny had that same affinity — and this place didn't have anything nice to say at all. This place spooked him in some intangible, eerie way. The rocks held a feeling that wasn't right, wasn't natural. Sonny wouldn't go so far as to call it a feeling of evil, but it sure as hell didn't make him warm and fuzzy inside. He'd never felt anything like it. It wasn't just the mountain, but what was on it.
Or rather, what wasn't on it.
There were no animals here. The Utah mountains teem with life if you know what to look for. Here, however, there was nothing; no birds flying overhead, no jackrabbit tracks, no rodents, no chewed branches or seed husks, no droppings of any kind. The place was still. Quiet. Uncomfortable.
After several hours of that creepy feeling tingling up his back, Sonny finally nailed down the vibe. It was the same dark, thick atmosphere that clings to a funeral. He understood why the Indians called the place cursed. He also understood why Dennis the Deadhead left it alone despite the obvious riches to be had. It didn't matter. He'd mapped the location extremely well and could give exact coordinates to the spring. He wouldn't have to come here again.
As darkness fell, Sonny finished up the long hike to the Humvee. He took a thirsty look at the blazing sunset, a picture that grew more and more beautiful as the years wore on. As he climbed into the Humvee, he felt a sense of relief that the mountain would soon be behind him. He patted his chest pocket one more time to make sure the vial was there. His leathery face split by a wide smile, Sonny headed for Salt Lake City.
Chapter Four
Salt Lake City looked so damn beautiful, a jewel against the breathtaking backdrop of the Wasatch Mountains. The view was heavenly — it was no wonder Brigham Young stopped his caravan some one hundred and fifty years ago and decided that this was the place for the Mormons to stake their claim.
The staking of claims was a big part of Utah's history, whether it was for land or minerals. Utah sucked untold fortunes from the earth: gold, iron ore, molybdenum, potash, magnesium. In the 1990s the state led the nation in beryllium and Gilsonite production. But as far back as Sonny could remember, platinum claims were not among Utah's fabled stories.
"Platinum?” Sonny asked, his face wrinkling incredulously under his now neatly trimmed beard. “You sure, Herb? I thought it was silver."
"Yes, I'm sure, Sonny,” Herbert Darker said in a conspiratorial whisper. Herbert was one of the few men that Sonny could look down at. Herbert stood all of five-foot-five, just a hair under Sonny's diminutive stature. They sat on opposite sides of a black lab table, the sample result printout lying between them. Herbert's eyes revealed his excitement over the find.
"It looks like a very rich source,” Herbert said. “The stuff you found is almost pure. That's unheard of. And one of the impurities is iridium, which is also valuable. This is an amazing find."
Sonny found himself whispering as well. “Are you telling me this is my biggest find yet? Bigger than the Jorgensson mine?"
"Well, it's the biggest find I've analyzed for you, anyway."
"Oh shut up, Herb,” Sonny said jokingly. “You know damn well you're the only one I let touch my samples for going on, what, fifteen years now?"
Herbert looked away for a second — away and down. Then just as quickly, he looked up, looked Sonny in the eye, and smiled. “Sixteen years, actually,” Herbert said. “I'm not an expert on platinum, but from what I've read—” his voice dropped to a breathless whisper, and Sonny strained to hear “—you may have the purest vein in the world."
Thirty minutes later, Herbert Darker sat in the privacy of his locked office, a stunning view of sunset over the Wasatch Mountains filling the room with amber light. He spoke into the phone, still whispering despite the fact that Sonny had left twenty minutes earlier.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Kirkland, this is big,” Herbert said, his hand cupped over the mouthpiece.
"Just tell me the ore grade, Herbert?” Connell said.
"I don't know. He didn't bring in an ore sample, just the dust he panned. For there to be that much dust and have it be that pure, it would have to come from a very concentrated source. There's no impurities, except for about thirty percent iridium, but that's almost as valuable as the platinum. If I had to guess, I'd say at least ten ounces per ton of ore, maybe higher."
"Bullshit, Herbert. There's no platinum vein that high.” The sound of Connell's cold tone always made Herbert nervous. He hated talking to the man, but Connell always paid so well.
"You think I don't know that?” Herbert said. “Why do you think I called you so quickly?” Tension gripped his body. Stress guided his every movement, making him fidget in his chair. His temples throbbed, as did the back of his neck. He knew he shouldn't have called Connell, but now it was too late.
He'd met Connell only once, mostly because the man rarely left his office, ruling the mining industry like some dark magician from his tower of doom. Connell was tall and lanky, just a hair over six-foot-four. His carriage gave off predatorial waves. He moved quickly, with a slight limp but little wasted motion, his black curly hair framing remorseless gray eyes.
"Okay,” Connell said. “Where did he get it?"
"Hell if I know. He's a crafty old bastard."
"How can you not know, Herbert? It's got to be in the area, right? I mean you're in Salt Lake City, and he came to you."
Herbert took a breath. The pain in his temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “He always comes to me. He does it so no one can guess the location of his finds."
A little more than a year earlier Sonny had discovered gold in Wyoming. The prospector carried the sample all the way to Salt Lake City, all the way to Darker, Inc., for analysis. The word is ‘trust,' Herbert thought. You're the only one he trusts, the only one. Now you're betraying that trust.
Connell's flat, no-nonsense voice grabbed Herbert's attention. “I need to talk to this man immediately. Give me his name and number."
"I can't do that!” Herbert heard himself whining, but he couldn't help it. “You have to wait. He's only been in town for a couple of days. He only found out about the platinum quality thirty minutes ago, for Christ's sake. He'd know I gave you the information!"
"You're a piece of work, you know that? You don't have any idea where he got it, it may be the richest find of the century, and now you're telling me I shouldn't call him?"
"But Mr. Kirkland, he'll know it was me! I could go to jail if he wanted to press charges."
"Oh don't be an idiot,” Connell said. “He couldn't prove anything, and there is nothing connecting you with us. I haven't got time for this bullshit. I need his number, and I need it now. Would an extra ten grand change your mind?"
Herbert fell silent. He could still back out and protect Sonny's find, at least for a while. Perhaps give Sonny time to properly sell the claim; Connell was ruthless and would find a way to own the site within days. Sonny might very well wind up with nothing.
"Okay, Herbert, you're playing hardball. My courier will deliver twenty-five grand to your hot little hands the moment I have a chat with this man. This is a one-time offer. I need a decision right now."