Quicksilver (The Forensic Geology Series, Prequel) Read Free Page A

kind of things he needs to know. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure he’s gone hunting. Figuring where does take a geologist. At least, for me.”
    I said, “We don’t do treasure hunts.”
    “How about to save a life?”
    “That we do.” I folded my arms. “Should there be a life in danger.”
    “Henry’s note was a suicide note.”
    It took me a moment. “You just said he was hunting the source of the rock.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Doesn’t sound like somebody who intends to kill himself.”
    “You don’t know Henry.”
    Walter asked, “Did you bring the note?”
    “I did.” Shelburne took a folded paper from his jacket pocket and passed it to Walter.
    Walter opened the paper and read. “This does not necessarily say suicide.” He passed it to me.
    I read. It was two short lines. Shaky writing. I’ve had it, for keeps . And below that, Call Robert , with a phone number.
    “There’s one more item Henry left for me.” Shelburne took another, smaller metal lunchbox from his satchel. He opened it and withdrew a plastic dish and set it on the table beside the ore sample. He withdrew a small vial, unscrewed the cap, upended the vial, and let the contents slide into the dish.
    I thought, whoa.
    Silvery drops found one another and congealed into a puddle. 
    I wanted to stick my finger in it. I wanted to scoop it up and roll it around in my palm. I’d done something of the sort in college chem, although it was officially discouraged.
    “Mercury,” Walter said. “This is part of your brother’s message?”
    Shelburne turned over the small lunchbox. Crudely etched into the bottom was Property of Henry Shelburne . “He collected the stuff, as a kid. I didn’t know he still had this, until I found it sitting on the table beside the microscope.”
    “Still, that does not necessarily say suicide.”
    “I fear it does. I know my brother.” Shelburne’s eyes seemed to take on a metallic glow. “We’re a pair. We’re like gold and mercury—numbers seventy-nine and eighty on the periodic table of the elements. Side by side, brothers and fundamental opposites. But when they come into contact, they mix.”
    I said, “Please put the mercury away, Mr. Shelburne.”
    “It’s not toxic, in the elemental state.”
    I said, “It oxidizes upon exposure to air. In its vapor phase, it’s very toxic.”
    “Not quickly. In a small overheated room, yes.”
    “Nevertheless, please put it away.”
    “Certainly.” He took a large eyedropper from the lunchbox. He suctioned up the puddle and expelled it into the vial. He screwed the cap back on, tight. He returned the vial and the dish and the dropper to the small box.
    Two metal lunchboxes, side by side.
    “Gold and mercury,” Shelburne said. “One precious. One poison.”

3
    W alter 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