I looked.
Walter held his bound hands high. Unclenched now. His right hand commanded attention. He pinched a small rock between his thumb and forefinger. “This is what you came for.”
Henry peered at Walter. Robert cocked his head. I looked back and forth, from one brother to the other, from the brothers to Walter. Surely they could not see what I could see. Could not make out the details.
I could make out the details. It was a largish pebble, rough and reddish, lumpy, bits of rock cemented together. A conglomerate, if anyone was asking. I wondered, could it be?
Walter shot me a look. Shot my bound hands a look.
Use your nail.
And then I understood, staring at the pebble pinched between Walter’s fingers, staring now at his fingernails, a man’s good-sized hands and a man’s good-sized nails. His nails were too large. Unlike mine, which just might fit into the locking bar of the cable tie. Yes, Walter. I get it.
You do your bluff, I’ll do my best to unlock this sucker. And then what? And then we’ll see.
“Listen to me, boys,” Walter said, voice gone soft now, so soft that we all had to strain to hear. “Your grandfather saw that hillside. Look at it.”
They looked, scanning the walls, and while they looked I bent to my work. The heavy-duty cable tie binding my ankles had a big wide slot. And I had small unclipped fingernails. Doable?
“I give you this,” Walter said. “A workable hypothesis. Follow me. A, you have a source of trapped mercury in that hillside. B, it is likely trapped in a bedrock basin. C, something created that basin. D, a long time ago a dike intruded a Tertiary gravel channel and acted as a giant riffle. It created a giant pocket, in which gold collected. That ore specimen you brought to the lab, Robert, originated in there. In that hillside. Right behind you.”
I began to think it wasn’t a bluff. As my mind followed the geology lesson, my fingers worked. I worked my right pointer fingernail into the cable slot and pressed down on the locking bar. Astonishingly, the lock opened. Not astonishing. The right tool for the right job, hey? I nearly laughed. A crazy-ass laugh.
I stole a glance at Walter, gave him the slightest nod.
He returned it.
“In that hillside,” he said, “there is what geologists call a fracture spring. It charges with winter rains that percolate through the soils. Over the years it eroded the material in the riffled pocket and some of it flushed out here.”
Eroding the trough where we sat. I thought, it’s really not a bluff. I held my breath and very very slowly backed the loose section of the cable tie through the slot. Sound like a clock ticking.
“Some bits larger than others,” Walter said, loud again, “and at least one a large enough specimen that it caught the eye of your grandfather. Most so small they would catch nobody’s eye. Unless one knew where to look.”
Henry turned. “How do you…?”
“Know?” Walter glanced at me.
I held the opened tie in a loop around my ankles. I held it like a prize.
“How do I know?” Walter boomed. “I deduce. I look at the geology, Henry. I analyze. I make a hypothesis. And because I understand what I am looking at, I know where to look.”
“Is there…”
“Yes.”
Henry came out of the grotto, pausing at the entrance, eyes fixed on Walter. Robert leaned forward, his bound hand straining against the cuff. His unbound hand had captured the Glock. He held it loose, upended, and a thin silver necklace slid out of the barrel.
I thought, chilled, could the thing work?
“Come here, son,” Walter said.
Yeah, I thought. Step away from the grotto. Step away from the kindling. Step away from your brother.
“Look,” Walter said, “right in my hand is a bit of that gravel. The same stuff your grandfather found.” Walter angled his bound hands. Showing a different face of the tiny rock. “Look here. There is a visible grain of gold. You can see it but you’ll have to come closer.”
I stared at the pebble. There was color. Could be a flake of gold. Could be a grain of pyrite. Fool’s gold. Either way, my pulse leapt. With a tremendous effort I yanked my gaze from the pebble to look at Robert. His face was keen. Avid. His gun hand had gone slack.
I moved my feet. Just slightly to the side, in preparation. Keeping them together as if they were still bound.
“Come on, son,” Walter said. “You should have a look at this.”
Henry whispered, “No.”
I heard the yearning in Henry’s voice before I turned and saw it in his face. No? You don’t believe Walter? You, the amateur geologist, don’t believe the evidence before your eyes? Then come the fuck closer and look. Because I saw. Because I believed. Because Walter was talking geology. Not legend. Not wishful thinking. For the love of your soul Henry come and take the pebble from Walter and see for yourself. This is what you’ve hunted since your father fed you the legend with your morning cereal. This is what Camden Shelburne promised. Lured you with. Taunted you with. This is it, Henry. This is where you prove yourself to your father. To the dead man. Alive, I fear, in your mind. You found this mine site. You got here, you got us all here. You pointed a gun at us and hired yourself a couple of geologists. All you have to do is take the pebble that the gold-minded geologist found. And then you can say you won. All that shit with your father and your brother over the failed cleanup company doesn’t matter. You can win now. Take it. You earned it Henry. You really did. You spent your life force hunting this. You want it. I see it in your face. You’re squinting to see what Walter is offering. Come get what you came for. You look like the kid in the Old West photo. You look like a kid.
An aching memory washed over me, a kid in a red cowboy hat playing hide-and-seek.
I shut it down.
“Henry,” Robert said. “My God. We can do this. Together.”
The hesitation was tiny, a clenching around Henry’s mouth.
And then Henry stepped back into the grotto and struck the match and flung it into the kindling.
I heard it before I saw it. Heard the crackling, like corn popping. Smelled it before I saw it. Smelled the bitter odor of mountain misery, just curling into the air. And then I saw a black resinous tendril of smoke, and then an orange tendril of fire. The smoke rose thinly, up up up the chimneyed grotto. The fire spread laterally, licking along a plank, probing the jumbled pile of splintery old wood.
Henry squatted and blew on his fire. A fresh match in his hand.
Robert raised his gun hand.
Time turned squirrely. Stretched and slowed.
I was scrambling to my feet, ankles free of the cable tie, hands still bound, swinging my legs behind me to lever myself up, and stumbling up the trough, legs rubber, stampeding into the grotto, a madwoman surprising Robert in the act of aiming the barrel of the Glock in the direction of his brother.
Time turned so stretchy that I had all the time in the world to glance at Henry in the corner and see him smile.
To glance behind me and see Walter struggling to get onto his knees, ankles and hands still bound, an impossible task.
To hear Walter shout, “Blast.”
To stop myself at the edge of the pool and wonder if there was room for me.
To assess the growing blaze, to see the flames heighten, to feel the heat cast off, to swear I could smell the iron pipe heating.
To yank up my parka to cover my mouth, my nose, and collapse into position with my boots over the edge.
And then whoosh I scooted into Henry Shelburne’s pool, crushed between Robert and the bedrock edge.