Quicksilver (The Forensic Geology Series, Prequel) by Toni Dwiggins

Author:Toni Dwiggins [Dwiggins, Toni]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-11-07T05:00:00+00:00

12

Two things, in quick succession:

I said shit and Walter stirred.

I scanned the tunnel and saw that Robert Shelburne’s sleeping bag was empty.

The figure at the mouth of the tunnel did not move. Not an inch. Shoulder still dipped. Head still angled.

Holy holy shit.

I tried to exit my sleeping bag. Too quick. Entangling myself. Making struggling noises.

Walter slowly sat up. Looking at me. What?

I nodded toward the entrance.

Walter turned to look.

The figure, unmoving, carved there by the artist for all eternity, watched us in turn. “How do you do?” he said. And then when we did not respond, “I do poorly.”

His voice was soft, reserved. Frugal.

~ ~ ~

Time passed. Seconds most likely. Possibly a full minute. The light outside intensified, as if an hour had passed and full morning had bloomed. A trick of radiating sunlight, tearing a hole in the fog. A matter of seconds.

I said, “Henry?”

He said, “Yes.”

Walter spoke. “Henry Shelburne.”

I thought perhaps Walter’s use of the surname was for my benefit, as if Walter thought I had just awakened, myself, and was in that exit-mode from the dream world where reality is conditional, as if I had another Henry in mind, one only accessed in memory.

“We have five minutes,” the figure said. Henry Shelburne said, in his soft parsimonious voice. He shifted slightly, crooking his left leg so that he could more fully look at us. “I can’t come in.”

Walter turned on the lantern.

Henry Shelburne was still backlit by the day outside but now frontlit, as well, by the cool LED glow of the lantern. I could see that his cap was Sherpa-style, with earflaps. I could make out the color of the cap and parka: brown. Disappearing-phantom-in-the-woods brown. I could just make out his features. He looked remarkably like the wet-combed teenager from the Old West photograph. But, in this light, the marks of the years would not be apparent. What was apparent was his left hand gripping his thigh.

In the photo, I recalled, in which Henry sat in the saloon chair, his left thigh had been strapped to a holster. No holster, now. No fake six-shooter. Just faded jeans encasing that thigh. Jeans, down parka, wool hat. Muddied hiking boots. Henry Shelburne looked like any other hiker on a foggy mountain morning. I tried to wrap my mind around this new Henry, the real deal, not the fragile teenager in the photo.

Walter said, “How do you do, son. My name is Walter Shaws and my associate here is Cassie Oldfield. We’re geologists in the employ of your brother, who has been searching for you. Who is extremely concerned about your welfare. But I expect you know all that.”

Henry Shelburne’s hand tightened on his thigh.

“I’m quite sorry to hear that you’re doing poorly,” Walter said. “How can we help?”

“You helped,” Henry said.

Walter nodded. “I assume you mean in the sense of leading your brother here.”

“Yes, I mean that. That was resourceful, Robert.”

I looked beyond Henry but if Robert Shelburne was out there he was masked in the fog.

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