Walter, still below on the traverse, called, “Cassie, what happened?”
“Dislodged talus,” I called back. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. Shelburne in his haste was courting recklessness. I hollered up to him, “Be more careful.”
He called down, “It wasn’t me.”
“What?”
“It came from up there.”
I tipped my head way back. Several switchbacks above Shelburne there was a ledge, slightly overhanging the trail. You don’t get talus unless it’s been wasted out of a rock face and that meant this bedrock sheet we were climbing continued above the ledge. The ledge was a false ridge, with a debris field hanging on its lip, just waiting to be dislodged.
Shelburne shouted, “Henry!”
No sound from the ledge above.
Down on the bedrock trail, the three of us waited.
No answer.
My foot throbbed. I bent to extract the rock fragment. It had torn the leather skin of my boot tongue and bruised the top of my foot.
Conceivably, nobody was up on the ledge flinging rocks at us. There was the obvious alternative. A scampering ground squirrel could have done it, although those were a good number of big rock frags for one small squirrel. Could have been a bear. I once encountered a shifty California black bear patrolling a ridge, waiting for hikers to arrive and shuck their packs and open the trail mix. I didn’t mind a bear. I knew bears. I’d ditched the trail mix in deference to the bear and we each pursued our own paths.
“Come on,” Robert Shelburne yelled down at us.
I straightened up.
Hell if it was a squirrel or a bear.
Odds said that it was the man who’d left the bandana to flag the trail. And now he’d found himself a vantage point to watch for us. And I dearly hoped he’d dislodged the talus by accident.
If not… what the hell, Henry Shelburne?
2
The Shelburne case had begun on the other side of the mountains.
California’s Sierra Nevada range showed two faces — the severe steepled eastern side and the gentler lusher western side. Our home base was the mountain town of Mammoth Lakes, on the eastern side.
Day before yesterday, Robert Shelburne showed up at our door.
Normally, our business didn’t come from droppers-by. Most of our work came from law-enforcement referrals and defense-attorney requests. Still, we had a Sierra Geoforensics sign over the door and a working website, and someone looking for world-class forensic geologists could find us easily enough.
It was mid-morning when Shelburne came into the lab, giving it the once-over, tossing us a smile and an inquiry. “Might I steal fifteen minutes of your time?”
Walter rose from his workbench. “That depends on what you intend to do with them. Mister…?”
“Robert Shelburne. And if I’m addressing Walter Shaws, I’ve come to the right place.”
“I am,” Walter said. He gestured at me. “Cassie Oldfield’s partner.”
“Ah, partners, even better.” Robert Shelburne stuck out his hand and crossed the room to me.
I rose from my workbench and accepted the handshake. I knew what he was seeing. Junior partner, clearly. Given that this man had come looking for Walter, I expected him to assess my age and status and possibly gender and pass quickly on to Walter. He didn’t. He held my hand a moment longer than pleasantries required. Firm handshake. Direct eye contact. No flirtation; direct and professional.
That should have impressed me. It nearly did.
It certainly gave me the time to assess him.
He had the air, and look, of a man who took charge. He had a strong face with a bladed nose and black brows that cambered like bird wings. His green eyes were narrow, his face all angles. He looked to be in his mid thirties. His black hair was diked with a single silver ray, slicked back and feathered at the neck. He wore a multi-pocketed khaki jacket over black hiking pants. Power grooming, mountain style. He carried a stylish and very large leather satchel.
I thought, this guy is accustomed to success.
He released my hand and moved on to Walter.
They shook hands. Brief, cordial.
Walter gave a nod, ready to give our visitor those fifteen minutes. “How can we help you, Mr. Shelburne?”
“If I may?” Shelburne dipped his head, indicating our big map table, raising his satchel.
“Please.”
Shelburne set it on the table and removed a box. The box was metal, the size of a lunchbox, scratched and dinged. “My brother went missing,” Shelburne said. “Because of this.”
I said, “You mean, because of what’s inside?”
“Yes, of course.” He flashed a bear-with-me smile. “I’m nervous, I must admit. I’ve come a long way and my hopes are pinned on what’s inside. On gaining some help here.”
“You could have phoned first. Made an appointment.” That came out harsher than I’d intended. “I mean, to be certain you’d find us in the lab.”
“My story is a bit irregular. I decided I’d do better presenting in person.”
Walter said, “You have our attention.”
Shelburne laid a hand on the box. Fingered the latch. Snapped it open. Lifted the lid.
Inside was an ore specimen. Not in the least irregular, I thought, bringing an ore specimen to a couple of geologists. It was a chunk of rock with a reddish-brown hue, rough and lumpy, a gravel of pebbles and small cobbles cemented together. Unlovely.
Shelburne’s eyes were on us, not the rock. “You understand what that is?”
I nodded.
Walter grunted.
I knew that grunt. Walter was interested.
I was wary.
Walter took out his hand lens and bent over the specimen, giving it a close inspection. He said nothing. He kept his nose to the rock for an inordinate amount of time.
I shifted. I could have done a full mineralogical and chemical analysis in the time he was taking to do this hand-lens study. Was he going to take until lunchtime? I could have gone into our mini-kitchen and eaten my lunch, in that time frame — turkey sandwich, nectarine, decadent brownie, the whole nine yards. Geological epochs have passed in less time. I glanced at Shelburne.
Shelburne waited. Perfectly still.
My stomach growled. I said, finally, “And so?”
Walter straightened and passed me the lens.
I put my own nose to the lunchbox, playing the twenty-power magnifier across the rough face of the rock. Right off the bat I could say that this was a conglomerate that consisted of well-rounded rock fragments, primarily quartz and diorite, cemented in a matrix of sandy clay. There were a few angular black pebbles, potentially of more interest, but my focus skipped to the sparse freckling of another color. A deep golden yellow. These tiny grains were flattened, irregular, their surface pitted, so unobtrusive that when I set aside the hand lens they were invisible to my naked eye. I snatched up the lens again, looking again, and now the grains stood out in sharp relief because I understood that I was looking at pure gold. Perhaps only a few dollars’ worth but striking enough to silence my stomach and make my pulse leap.
I tore my attention from the specimen and found Walter looking at me. His blue eyes had gone brighter, bluer.
For Walter, the rock in the lunchbox was a thing of joy.
For me, it was a thing of the past. Or so I thought.