The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1) Read online

  High above, the spring sun shined brightly. Absent most of the day, it grudgingly emerged from cotton-ball clouds to provide modest warmth. Adam could not believe that any place in the lower forty-eight states could be this cool on the cusp of summer. He stepped out of the car, walked past the Tower of Pisa to a large boulder near the entrance of the mine, and watched his friend make full use of his boy brain.

  Joel got right to work. Rechargeable flashlight in hand, he climbed a short incline to the main attraction, stopping only to remove a prickly weed that clung to his jeans. When he arrived, he ran his fingers along thick gray beams that framed the entrance, paused for a moment, and frowned, as if realizing that breaching the mine might involve more thought and effort than a chip shot from a bunker. A patchwork of unpainted boards and posts covered ninety-five percent of the opening.

  Adam knew it was only a matter of time before Joel attempted to reduce that percentage, so he put his hands behind his head, reclined on the boulder, and settled in for the long haul. He had seen this sort of thing before.

  "Joel?"

  "Yeah."

  "I have a question."

  "Shoot."

  "How is your English progressing?"

  "What?"

  "Well, I was wondering what part of 'Keep Out' and 'No Trespassing' and 'Danger' you don't understand."

  Joel let go of a loose board and looked back at Adam. He smiled, formed a pistol with his right hand, extended it toward his questioner, and fired with his thumb.

  "Good one. I'll be sure to write that down." Joel returned to the board. "I think I can work this free. Why don't you give me a hand?"

  "No, thanks. I'd rather watch you get splinters." Adam sat up. "Come on, Joel. It's been more than fifteen minutes. Let's go. We still have to go back to the diner."

  "We will. I promise. But first I want to check this out."

  Joel stepped away from the entrance, scanned his surroundings, and then started down the path. He appeared defeated, not inspired.

  "Finally!" Adam muttered to himself.

  But before Adam could lift his sore butt off the boulder, Joel picked up a chunk of limestone the size of a cantaloupe and marched back up the hill. Twice he dropped the rock, barely missing his light-duty hiking boots. Twice he wiped debris from his hands, picked up the object, and continued his ascent. When he reached the top, he put the chunk on the ground and brushed himself off. He turned toward Adam and grinned.

  "You didn't think I was going to give up that easily, did you?"

  Joel hoisted the rock high above his head and sent it crashing through the boards. He kicked and yanked the remaining wreckage from its moorings, tossed it aside, and stared at his creation: a two-foot gap that now allowed easy passage. Joel retrieved his flashlight, flicked the switch, and directed a beam into the abyss.

  "Looks inviting to me!"

  "It's a good thing Montana doesn't have laws against trespassing and vandalism," Adam said. "The sheriff might even give you points for persistence. Now, let's go."

  "In a minute. I just want a look."

  "What do you think you're going to find in there? Carmen Electra? Come on. I'm serious. We have a long drive."

  Joel faced his friend. He held up his right hand and extended every finger.

  "That's all I ask. Five minutes. I'm curious, OK? I've never been in a gold mine and want to take a peek."

  Adam's hard stare crystallized.

  "All right," Joel said. He glanced at his watch. "It's eleven twenty-five now. At eleven thirty we leave. Fair?"

  Adam jumped off the boulder, held up his cell phone, and pointed to its screen.

  "Eleven thirty."

  "I promise," Joel said, smiling. "And look at the up side: If I find a gold nugget, the next hundred drinks are on me!"

  Joel wiped the grimy lens of the flashlight with his grunge band sweatshirt, kicked a baseball-sized rock away from the narrow opening, and adjusted his first impulse buy, a felt cattleman crease cowboy hat he had picked up in Butte. It was not a hard hat, but he did not seem to care. He entered the mine and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 5

  The dust hit Joel first. It was industrial strength, the kind that sent asthmatics like Adam on benders and made even the hardiest breathers pine for a respirator. No OSHA compliance in this facility. The mineshaft was also incredibly dark. Pre-Edison dark. Stub-your-toe-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-cuss-three-times dark. Joel mentally saluted the poor souls who had once made a living crawling into this hole. He wondered how much gold had been pulled from the mountain.

  The shaft's first hundred yards revealed solid construction. Thick crossbeams and smaller wooden strips that ran along the walls and ceiling appeared sturdy, if predictably worn. Steel rails broke up a dirt floor and guided the way inward. To the right, a smaller, less-structured shaft veered to points unknown. Otherwise, the mine was remarkably unremarkable. The last people to move through this place did not leave souvenirs behind.

  Joel pushed forward. With each step, he thought of gold and glory. But he also thought of the running clock, the drive home, and Adam’s wraparound sunglasses. Had Smiling Sarah put them in a lost-and-found drawer? Would she demand a phone number for their ransom? Or were they now the property of the pimple-faced boy who had claimed Adam’s barstool as the college students had exited the diner?

  As Joel pressed deeper into the mine, he experienced the kind of solitude generally reserved for solo jogs, beach walks, and bike rides. It had probably been a very long time since anyone had wandered through the bowels of this mountain, maybe decades. Yet he was not alone. Small clusters of brown bats hung from the ceiling at fairly regular intervals and at least two rats had managed to stay a step ahead of the flashlight. The mine fauna did not appear agitated by the intruder, but Joel got the impression that they would be more than happy to see him return to the Canary.

  He was about to do just that when he saw what appeared to be another side shaft, this time to his left. He directed the flashlight toward the narrow opening, but its beam was not necessary. A bright phosphorescent glow lit up most of the space, an unsupported extension that measured roughly fifteen feet by forty.

  Joel knew that gypsum, calcite, and zircon, among other minerals, could emit light when exposed to ultraviolet radiation, but he had never seen or heard about anything like this. The blue light flickered wildly and covered nearly the entire cell. Only the back wall lacked significant illumination.

  Driven by renewed curiosity, Joel entered the chamber. He ducked under a low beam, walked about twenty feet, and turned to face a particularly bright spot on the nearest wall. He placed a hand to the rock, half expecting his digits to burn on contact or pass through a membrane. They did neither. The hard, smooth surface was cool to the touch.

  Joel examined the opposite wall and found the same. He could see no reason why a solid rock cavity, deep in a mountain, would put on the airs of a discotheque. What was this stuff? Sapphire? Uranium? Kryptonite? It had to be valuable. The mine was amazing.

  I picked the wrong term paper topic.

  He took a few tentative steps toward the darker rear of the room but saw nothing more of interest. The walls here were just as glossy and sheer but less illuminative.

  A distinctive noise punctuated the silence. Joel froze. He had heard the sound before – on television, in movies, and at the zoo. But he had never heard it in the wild and certainly never in a place like this. He heard it again. Any doubt about its source disappeared.

  He peered at the back wall and saw a poorly defined form move closer. Joel stepped back and lifted his flashlight. He stared at his cellmate. His cellmate stared back. Fat, brown, ugly, and four feet long, it appeared none too happy to share Studio 54 with a college senior. It was a Crotalus viridis, or badass prairie rattlesnake.

  At first the snake appeared to give its human intruder a break. It retreated into a tight coil, hissed, and stuck out its tongue. Twice!

  Joel got the hint and commenced a retreat
. Even King Solomon's mine was not worth a trip to the hospital. Shining his light directly at the serpent, he took a few deliberate steps toward the main shaft and freedom. With fifteen feet to go, his confidence grew. Then he backed squarely into a pie-shaped depression, lost his balance, and hit the floor. The flashlight broke free and rolled toward the reptile.

  The snake darted out of its coil and slithered closer. Leaving the lamp behind, Joel shot up, turned around, and raced toward the exit. He saw a sliver of reflected light that had found its way into the primary passage. He did not see the low-hanging beam, which popped his forehead like a Louisville Slugger.

  The impact triggered stars and ringing but strangely no pain. For a few seconds, Joel felt nearly euphoric. He lifted his head and smiled. Then flashes of blue yielded to waves of black as the ground came up to meet him.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Joel came to, the snake was gone.

  He checked for bite marks, saw none, and slowly rose from the gritty floor. His head hurt. His whole body hurt. But mostly his ego hurt. Wandering into this dark, dusty den of killer reptiles was not the smartest thing he had done in twenty-two years. Once again, Adam’s judgment had trumped his own.

  Then he remembered the room, the one glowing at his back. It was still there, still real, still enchanting. The questions about its astonishing features came flooding back. Joel looked forward to explaining his discovery to Adam and others. Leaving his flashlight to the snake, he stepped into the main shaft and walked toward a tiny sphere of daylight two hundred yards away.

  When he reached the mine’s entrance, he noticed that the boards he had labored so mightily to remove were gone. The rails at his feet appeared slightly less worn, as did the beams overhead. He stepped into bright sunshine and took a breath of fresh air.

  Joel embraced the day. Just getting into open space, free of crazy creatures and stifling particulates, improved his disposition. But as he slowly walked to the parking lot, his mood began to change.

  Adam was gone. So was the car. And surroundings that seemed familiar to him minutes earlier suddenly seemed foreign. Three buildings still guarded the entrance but looked less weathered. The one Joel had deemed structurally unsafe appeared upright and sturdy, even inviting. Unbroken panes filled every window. No persons, places, or things occupied the clearing, save a badly rusted, tire-free Model A Ford with a half-dozen bullet holes on the passenger side door.

  So Bonnie and Clyde liked mines.

  Joel grabbed his cell phone and dialed Adam but got no ring. Where was he? Had he returned to Helena for the glasses? Joel looked at his watch. Both hands pointed due north. Thirty minutes late. Not good. Still, Adam could have left a message.

  Rather than sit and wait and get angry, Joel proceeded down the goat trail, which looked wider, flatter, and smoother than the one he had climbed in his SUV. Perhaps he could get a signal on Gold Mine Road or at least find someone who would let him borrow a landline telephone. Anything beat doing nothing.

  Twenty-five minutes later Joel arrived at an intersection that looked very little like the one that had prompted his day-changing side trip. The Mine sign was there but not the bush that had hid it. Gold Mine Road was not Minefield Lane but rather a well-groomed, unpaved route that one might find in a national park. Trees that had formed a grove at the junction of the roads seemed smaller and less imposing.

  But most alarming was the crystal-clear status of the log-and-stone estate that had once stood less than a football field away. It was gone.

  There were no mansions, no outbuildings, and no impressive lawns. Not even a mailbox or driveway to hint at human habitation. What was once the most impressive property in greater Helena, Montana, was now a relatively flat field of bunch grass, half-buried boulders, and maturing junipers.

  Joel tried again to reach Adam. No ring. No bars. No luck. He turned south, toward Old Sol, and started down Gold Mine Road with the hope he would find Highway 12 and not the Twilight Zone.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gold Mine Road did more than make a lasting second impression. It began to resemble a reasonably fine wine, improving as it progressed. Rocky dirt turned to less rocky dirt and then to mixed dirt and gravel. There was ample room for vehicles to pass.

  Joel spotted three houses on the north, or mountainous, side of the road but none he had seen before. They were modest cabins, not full-sized homes and certainly not the ostentatious digs from earlier in the day. Nothing on this stretch of road looked familiar. He approached each of the simple wooden structures but found all devoid of life. Only one, in fact, showed signs of recent occupation. On a freshly painted picnic table behind the third cabin, an empty soda bottle shared space with a half-eaten sandwich.

  The man without a plan continued his journey down the rural route. But with each step, he thought less about finding a way out of his unsettling predicament than about finding a satisfyingly creative way to strangle Adam Levy. They had a lot to discuss.

  Twenty minutes later he heard and then saw a southbound vehicle work its way toward him. It traveled fast – Joel Smith fast – and kicked up a fair amount of dust and debris as it rounded a corner and entered a straight quarter-mile stretch at Joel’s back. Within seconds it veered from the center of the road to the far right and slowed to a stop.

  Joel stepped onto the wide grassy shoulder of the northbound lane and turned to face the shiny black car – a mint-condition Depression-era coupe – and the first person he had seen since leaving the mine. A well-dressed middle-aged man rolled down his window and stuck out his head and left arm.

  "Need a ride?" he asked.

  "I do."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "Helena," Joel said. If it still exists.

  The man swung his arm upward and tapped twice on the top of his automobile.

  "Well, get on in," he said. "I'm going there now."

  Joel walked tentatively around the front of the car, never taking his eyes off the driver. When he reached the passenger side, he paused for a few seconds, glanced at the seemingly endless road ahead, and opened the door. The man looked at him curiously, like a souvenir in a gift shop, and then directed his attention forward. He shifted into gear and stepped on the pedal.

  "I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Stewart."

  "Joel Smith."

  The two shook hands.

  "Make yourself comfortable."

  Joel did just that. He settled into a polished leather bench seat, extended his legs, and cracked his window an inch before giving the car a more thorough inspection. It was at once old and new, an early 1940s Buick that looked and smelled like it had just come off a showroom floor. Joel looked for obvious signs of restoration but found none. Even the horn-ringed steering wheel and Damascened chrome panel, with driver-side gauges and a glove box-mounted clock, screamed original equipment.

  The driver too was something of a throwback. Fortyish, with a gentle face, short sandy hair, and a medium build, he wore a crisp white dress shirt, gray slacks, and brown wing-tip shoes: Bing Crosby on the Road to Helena. A gray flannel jacket and a matching brimmed felt hat rested in the middle of the front seat. Is that a fedora? The man appeared fidgety after a minute of silence.

  "Not from around here, are you?"

  "No. I'm on my way back to Seattle from Yellowstone. I came with a friend. We were checking out that old mine, but now I can't seem to find him. I think he drove my car to Helena to get some sunglasses."

  "Hmmm. Some friend. That mine's been abandoned for years, and most of the folks with cabins won't show for another week. I came out only to look in on my place. We've had some break-ins lately. You're lucky I saw you."

  "Yeah. Lucky."

  "What kind of car was your friend driving?"

  "A RAV4. Bright red. Toyota. You couldn't possibly miss it."

  "A red what?"

  "Toyota."

  "Never heard of it. I sell Buicks myself."

  "So this is . . ."

  "Brand spanking new. Bought it j
ust last week. You like it? I wanted to wait for the forty-twos this fall, but the little lady insisted on buying now. You know how that is," Sam said with a wink.

  Joel took a deep breath and resumed staring out the front window.

  Forty-twos?

  Sam tapped the brakes as he approached a major intersection. He turned east but not onto Highway 12. U.S. Route 10 North now served Helena.

  The speed limit was fifty miles per hour. In a field to the south, a billboard that had once touted George W. Bush for president now pushed a rural electric cooperative. But road signs were small potatoes compared to the landscape. Barren fields had replaced the homes and businesses lining the highway. No road crews regulated the approach to the pass and every vehicle that drove by in the westbound lane bore a striking resemblance to those manufactured in the twenties and thirties.

  Joel closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. This had to be a dream, or a bad interaction between his meat pie and ice tea. There had to be a plausible explanation. So Joel Smith, man of science, reviewed the data: Adam was AWOL, whole buildings had disappeared, and a crooner was driving him to yesteryear in a brand new antique. What could possibly be wrong with that?

  Sam adjusted an air vent and glanced at Joel, whose face had become pasty white.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Just a little stomach trouble. I'll be fine."

  If this is a prank, Adam, this is choice.

  "I assume you know where we're headed."

  Joel perked up. He had all but tuned out his new acquaintance.

  "I'm sorry. I need to get to the Canary. Do you know where that is?"

  "Sure do. Eat lunch there at least twice a week."

  CHAPTER 8

  The drive through Helena proper did nothing to help Joel's stomach. The Gilded Age mansions he had passed on the way out were still there. So were the parks. But the fast food restaurants, convenience stores, and modern stoplights had taken a powder.