Quicksilver

3

Walter said, “Tell us why your brother is suicidal.”

“Let me introduce him first.” Shelburne took yet one more object from his satchel. It was a padded envelope. He removed a photograph and laid it on the table beside the lunchboxes.

The photo was an eight-by-ten studio portrait. Black and white with a faux burnt border, clearly meant to evoke an Old West vibe. The subject sat in a saloon chair with a rough planked wall as backdrop.

The subject was a very young man. Slender as a quill. Left thigh tied to a low-slung holster holding a six-shooter, hands resting on thighs, fingers loose, ready to outdraw you. He wore a high-collared white shirt, too short in the sleeves, thin wrists sticking out, looking breakable. Over the shirt he wore a pickaxe bolo tie and a vest with shiny stripes in silver and black and a folded silver bandana tucked into the vest pocket. He wore baggy woolen pants and cracked leather boots. He stared somberly at the camera. He was a smooth-faced wet-combed teenager whose only marks of experience were two sculpted lines beneath his eyes, as if he were squinting at the far horizon.

“That photo was taken ten years ago,” Shelburne said. “I have nothing more recent.”

The subject in the photo had dark brown hair, same color that my little brother Henry had. My Henry was reed-thin, too. Thin-blooded. He’d worn a red cowboy hat just about every waking moment, at least during that last year. If my Henry had lived into his teens, he might have gone to a studio to have an Old West photo taken. He would have tried for a squint like that.

“Something wrong?” Shelburne said.

I looked up. Both Shelburne and Walter were watching me. Walter, with curbed concern. Shelburne, puzzled. I blinked. Eyes dry, no tears. What, then? Maybe I’m just that readable. I considered shrugging off Shelburne’s question but that would have made this too consequential, something that couldn’t be spoken. I said, “I’m just reminded of my own brother. Another Henry. He died very young. End of story.”

“Another Henry,” Shelburne repeated, softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I returned my attention to the photo, looking this time at the tooled leather belt holding up Henry Shelburne’s woolen pants. A big silver buckle anchored the belt.

Robert Shelburne noticed me noticing. “Dad gave him the belt.”

Something was written on the buckle, in thin curlicue lettering. I took up my hand lens.

“It says quicksilver. Dad gave him the nickname, too.”

I put down the lens.

“Quicksilver is what miners called liquid mercury, back in the day. For the color and the volatility.” Shelburne gave a sad smile. “Henry liked to play with the stuff.”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” I glanced at the lunchbox containing the vial of mercury. “Not very smart, though.”

“No, he wasn’t. He knows better now but it’s too late. Which is why he left his mercury kit along with the note.”

Walter said, “Are you saying he intends to poison himself?”

“He already has. But the coup de grace… I don’t know what he intends. His mind is at times chaotic.” Shelburne touched his temple with his forefinger. “Even as a kid, he was uncontainable. Quicksilver was the right name for him — mercurial as hell when he didn’t get his way. And he never did, with our father. Whatever he did to impress Dad turned into a flop. And then he’d regroup and try again.”

I glanced again at the photo, at Henry’s cool-guy squint. I wondered if he practiced it in front of a mirror before posing for the camera. Quicksilver: bright and shiny, squint-worthy, but difficult to contain. I turned to Robert Shelburne. “And you?”

“The opposite. In fact, I’d say Dad was always trying to impress me.”

“I mean, did you have a nickname?”

“Oh. Yes. Henry gave it to me.” Shelburne shrugged. “Golden Boy.”

“I don’t yet understand,” I said, “why Henry is suicidal now.”

“Deep depression,” Shelburne said. “One of the many symptoms of mercury poisoning. And that’s on top of Dad poisoning. Dad spoon-feeds him the family legacy, berates him, Dad dies, Henry finds the legacy rock. All of sudden Henry’s the man. The mission, which he chooses to accept, is to find the source of the rock.”

“Might he not succeed?”

“What if he doesn’t? The final flop. Can’t even impress a dead man.”

My heart squeezed.

“Either way, he sees himself as executor of the legacy.”

“Meaning, find the gold?”

“Not just that.”

“Then what?”

“Finding what our father was after, for most of his adult life.”

“Not gold?”

“Gold, sure. But in the context of something more fundamental.”

Walter, at my side, stirred.

“I’m going to have to go in-depth here. Another backgrounder. Our grandfather — known as the great bullshitter — claimed to have found a hidden ore deposit, from whence this rock presumably came. There’s a letter, flowery, vague as hell, teasing. Full of boasts. My father ended up in possession of the letter. And he signed on big-time. Keep in mind, this had become the family legend.”

“There’s no need to warn me about legends,” Walter said.

Shelburne tipped his head. “So my dad started looking for this deposit, dragging Henry and me along, preaching the letter. When we weren’t out hunting, Dad was feeding us the bullshit along with our breakfast cereal. Fast-forward twenty years. Dad dies — heart attack. We find the rock, Henry takes possession and finds the bullshit letter in Dad’s files.” Shelburne eyed us. “Maybe not bullshit, after all. You geologists will know, right? Is this rock from the… Well, you have a look and tell me.”

Shelburne took the ore specimen out of the lunchbox. He walked over to Walter’s workbench and placed it there.

Walter followed.

“Like I said, Henry split the original chunk of ore and left me this half. And let me tell you, when I saw the fresh-cut face it was damned dramatic.”

The fresh-cut face didn’t show on Walter’s workbench because Shelburne had placed the rock cut-face down.

“Go ahead,” Shelburne said. “See for yourself.”

Walter turned the rock over. He sucked in his breath.

I might have made a noise, myself. The cut face was blue, the blue of glacial ice.

Walter spoke. “I never expected to see this. It’s simply not to be seen, today.”

“That’s right,” Shelburne said. “At least that’s what Dad always said. The blue is buried.”

I turned to Shelburne. “It’s chemistry. Your rock, where the old surface shows, has been exposed to oxygen and so the iron minerals in the matrix have changed to an oxide. That’s why the color is reddish. But there, on the fresh face, which by definition hasn’t been exposed for long, the iron is not oxidized. That’s why it’s blue.”

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.