Walter said, to me, “It’s not the chemistry I was remarking upon, dear. It’s the legend.”
I replied, “You’re becoming as elliptical as Mr. Shelburne.”
“I’m just gobsmacked. This is, quite possibly, an ore sample from the deep blue lead.”
Shelburne said, “Looks like I found the right guy.”
“The blue lead.” I searched my memory. “Isn’t that…”
“Extraordinary,” Walter said. “Mr. Shelburne has walked into our lab with a rock that every geologist who harbors an interest in the story of gold dreams of seeing. The blue. The deep blue gold-bearing gravels. The blue lead.”
Shelburne said, “The golden brick road.”
“Legend has it, dear,” Walter said to me, “that long ago there was one special river channel, different from all others, where the gold-bearing gravels were deposited. The miners followed that path and they called it the ‘lead’ because they thought it would lead them to their heart’s desire.”
I said, “Isn’t that where legends normally lead?”
Walter smiled. “Of course the reality is that there were many channels, many tributaries. But down deep in those channels, down in the gut, the legend is true because the gravel of the lower stratum is a striking blue color and it’s there where the gold ran rich.”
“You’re talking about the ancient river channels. Of the Tertiary Period.”
Shelburne said, “The lost rivers of California.”
“They’re not lost,” I said. “They’re simply hidden by subsequent geologic events. Eruptions. Uplift. Erosion.”
Shelburne turned to Walter. “She doesn’t have much romance in her soul, does she?”
I flinched. Don’t I?
“Speaking of romance,” I said, to Shelburne, “what about you? The blue lead and the gold in the rock? Your eyes lit up.”
He lifted his palms. “You got me.”
“I do?”
“We’re all products of our childhood. Those lessons run deep. You do what you can with them when you grow up. Take them to heart, rebel, whatever. But you don’t erase them. I found my niche in the business world but, sure, I still have an eye for gold.”
“Then why didn’t you join Henry in the hunt?”
“He didn’t invite me.”
“But he’s inviting you now.”
“Yes, the clues. That’s the way Henry communicates. His memory is damaged so he plays these little games. They started as a mnemonic, a way to remind himself of things. Remind others. And it became ingrained. The way I read the clues he left behind this time, he wants me to follow him, help him.”
“Help him find the gold?”
“Help him if he doesn’t.”
“Or do both?”
Shelburne abruptly unzipped his jacket. Underneath, he wore a slim green T-shirt with a Club One Fitness logo. He lifted the shirt. For a bizarre moment I thought he was showing off his gym-toned abs, and then I noticed the belt holding up his hiking pants. It was a tooled leather belt with a big silver buckle.
I couldn’t read the curlicue lettering without coming closer, but I knew what it said. Quicksilver.
“Henry left the belt behind, as well. I’ll be wearing it until I find him.”
I thought, very effective. If Shelburne had practiced this pitch in front of a mirror he could not have performed it more convincingly. Isn’t that what venture capitalists prized?
Shelburne let his shirt drop. “Henry’s a wounded soul. Please help me find him.”
And then I felt unduly suspicious and very small. I looked to Walter.
He lifted his eyebrows.
In the not too distant past Walter would have decided the issue himself, but he’d offered me a partnership a year ago and I’d accepted and new rules had come into play. Either of us can bring in a case for consideration but the final choice is made jointly. Still, there’s the dance of who goes first. Walter was playing the gentleman, here. Charmingly old-fashioned, sometimes irritating, Walter always being a stickler for rules. Ladies first.
So I went first. Were we going to sign on to find Henry Shelburne? I wondered what I would have said had Robert Shelburne’s brother’s name been, say, George. But it wasn’t. I met Walter’s look. “It’s what we do.”
He said, “That it is.”
Dance concluded.
“Mr. Shelburne,” Walter said, “before we proceed we’ll require your signature on a contract. And a retainer.”
Shelburne flashed a grateful smile and took out his checkbook. Walter went to the file where we keep our brochures and reports and contracts. They sat together at the map table.
I watched.
I don’t believe in premonitions — I’m not into the woo-woo stuff — but it seemed creepily pertinent that the contract-signing took place beneath the poster on the wall. It’s a film poster from the Disney flick Alice in Wonderland, the part where Alice is tumbling down the rabbit hole. Walter bought and hung that poster. Walter likes the message: you follow the evidence wherever it takes you, down the rabbit hole if you must.
And that’s where Henry the wounded soul had evidently gone.
I’ve never been a fan of Alice, or her topsy-turvy world. And right now I was, in particular, not a fan of that whacked-out character she meets, the Mad Hatter. Back in Chem 101 I’d learned about the effects of mercury — and in a textbook sidebar, the reason the hatter is mad. Back in the day, hat-makers used mercury in the process of curing animal pelts to make hats. Day in, day out, breathing in the vapors. It affected speech. Coordination. It led to mental instability. Hallucinations. Dementia.
Mad as a hatter.
And we’re gearing up to go hunting for Henry Shelburne who, according to his brother, suffers the effects of mercury poisoning. Who leaves behind his vial of mercury as a fare-thee-well.
Who is reminding me of my own little brother, who suffered the effects of a genetic disorder. Who died while I was looking out the window.
Henry Shelburne and Henry Oldfield, each of them damaged goods.
So yeah, I’m on board with taking this case. Let’s find Henry Shelburne before he does something stupid.
But let’s do it on alert. Let’s be cautious.
4
The men concluded the paperwork. Walter moved to our mini-kitchen to put the coffee on — coffee being a celebratory ritual he likes to indulge, if the client is amenable — his version of breaking bread together, a symbolic sharing of the basics in life, establishing trust.
Shelburne packed away the photograph and the mercury kit. Exhibits no longer required.
I turned to the blue-faced rock.
Striking as it was, the blue face was not going get us where we needed to go.
There was a better clue cemented in the rock. A crackerjack clue. I assumed Henry the amateur geologist had noticed it, as well. Why else grab his microscope?
I grabbed mine.
Mine — well, Walter’s and mine — is a bulk-specimen stereoscopic scope. It has an articulated arm that can lift and reach and twist and accommodate a thick object like this chunk of ore. It looks vaguely prehistoric. I’d wager it cost more than Henry’s.
I placed the rock on the stage and focused in on the angular dark pebble.
The digital camera built into the scope sent the view to the attached monitor.
Under magnification, the pebble showed its structure, a mosaic of tiny interlocking grains that made the rock tough, that shouted its name. Hornfels — very very cool. Even cooler was the exquisite crystal with a black Maltese cross piercing its heart.
Walter brought me a mug of coffee and paused to admire the magnified pebble. He lifted his free hand; we high-fived. He said, “I believe I’ll start with the maps and see if that hornfels can lead us to fat city.” He headed to our map cabinet.