August 9
Connell drove north on Downing Street. Only a five-mile drive or so, but traffic was bumper to bumper. Maybe he should have taken Colfax. It was more than a little embarrassing to admit, but he’d spent most of the last five years at the office or his apartment — he didn’t drive enough to know the fastest route.
It probably didn’t matter which way he went. All the roads were packed. Had been since the terrorists took out the 87-85 interchange a year and a half ago. All told, Denver hadn’t suffered extensive damage in the Pandemic, but a few crazies had organized early, managed to destroy a huge amount of roadway before anyone was onto them. The interchange was mostly repaired and supposed to be active again soon. Any day now was what he’d heard on the news, but the news had been saying that shit for three months running.
The traffic didn’t bother him much, though, because he was already plenty bothered by the person on the other end of his phone call.
“What are you telling me, Sonny? Are you saying we need to scrap the whole project because there’s some bad history in the area?”
“Don’t think you can classify multiple murders and missing persons as simply bad history, Kirkland,” Sonny said. “I think that mountain is cursed.”
“Cursed? Oh, come on, Sonny, don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”
“Goddamned right I am. Hell, I’m the poster boy of superstitious.”
At least he was honest. Say one thing for Sonny McGuiness: what you saw was what you got, and he didn’t give a damn what you thought about that.
“So, what I’m gathering is that, in your professional opinion, we need to stay off that mountain because you got some voodoo heebie-jeebies?”
“Voodoo? That a racist comment?”
“No. Now answer the fucking question. Are you saying we should walk away from this?”
Sonny paused a moment. “Don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“That’s what I thought,” Connell said. “Look, you found prior evidence of a find in that area. That’s a big indicator we’re on the right track. I’m on my way to see what the lab geeks have come up with. The camp is under construction as we speak. Be there tomorrow. Unless maybe you want to give up your two percent and hurry along to your nursing home?”
“Was that an ageist comment?”
“Yes, it was. Will you be on-site tomorrow, or not?”
Sonny sighed. “I’ll be there.”
Connell disconnected, then exited off the highway. Single-story buildings, strip malls and industrial parks. A different look and feel from downtown Denver, and something he hadn’t really seen for … what … four years?
No, not four — five.
He hadn’t been to EarthCore’s lab since Cori’s death.
Five years since he’d stopped by just to see how everyone was doing? There had been a time when he didn’t let a week go by without visiting the lab to touch base, talking to the technicians, getting the scoop on the latest research techniques, the latest family news, the latest company gossip. Of course, there was also a time when he gave a shit about that worthless garbage.
He accomplished far more for the company by staying in his office. His apartment was only a block from there. Aside from traveling to prospective sites, those were the only two places he spent any time.
Connell pulled in to the parking lot. A nondescript one-story industrial building. Looked the same as it had the last time he visited. A surreal feeling washed over him, that he’d just been here, just yesterday, maybe. Maybe he’d pulled in, nodded off, dreamed the whole thing.
Maybe she wasn’t really gone.
He closed his eyes.
Please … please let it be a dream.
He opened his eyes. Same building. Same car — a car he’d bought just six months ago.
“Fucking idiot,” he said, then got out.
The building had no signage, which was status quo for any EarthCore facility. Barbara didn’t believe in flashy. Of course to her, “flashy” included branding, advertising and just about anything that required the presence of a logo rather than a handshake, a cigar and a beer.
He quietly entered the lab. The staff wore white lab coats. He didn’t remember them wearing those before. The people closest to the door looked up, saw him. Jaws dropped. Work slowly ground to a halt. He knew some of the faces from when he’d been more … social. Others he knew only from pictures in personnel files.
A man approached, smiling wide. Connell remembered the face, and the thick, black mustache that the man was so proud of. He remembered how everyone teased the man for being a wannabe ’70s porn star. But the name … the name wouldn’t register.
“Connell, it’s so good to see you again.” The man started to extend his hand, then paused, as if he wasn’t sure a handshake was the right thing. “It’s been a long time.”
Achmed. His name was Achmed. Connell hadn’t seen him since … since … well, since the night Cori died. Connell and Cori had actually gone to dinner with Achmed and his wife before that fateful New Year’s Eve party. The four of them had been friends. Connell hadn’t spoken to the man since that night. Not even once. He remembered sympathetic voice mails from Achmed, consolation cards, supporting emails – all of which had been ignored.
“Yeah, a long time,” Connell said. He reached out, shook the man’s hovering hand. “How is …”
His voice trailed off. He couldn’t remember Achmed’s wife’s name.
Achmed’s smile remained in place but shifted from genuine to forced, the kind of smile you put on to try to make someone else feel not-as-bad.
“She was in Chicago,” he said. “During the Pandemic.”
Chicago. Where the worst of it had gone down.
The emotion that washed over him felt so alien, so unfamiliar, that it took Connell a second to place the skin-prickling, stomach-wavering sensation: guilt.
When Connell’s wife had died, Achmed had reached out dozens of times. When Achmed’s wife had died, Connell hadn’t even known.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
This time Achmed’s smile was a sad thing, a time capsule of fond memories forever locked away.
“Thank you,” he said. “We deal with our grief and make the best life we can, no? I’d better get back to work. Angus is very demanding.” He walked back to his station.
If the closing-his-eyes-and-wishing thing actually worked, Connell would have at least used it to erase that conversation.
He saw O’Doyle approaching. Connell welcomed the distraction. He hadn’t known O’Doyle … before. No past friendship here. No pleasantries forgotten. Just work.
“Mister Kirkland, welcome.”
Connell had called ahead. His visit was a surprise to everyone except for his chief of security, who had been assigned to watch the science staff and provide anything they needed during the analysis blitz.
“Thank you,” Connell said. “What’s with the lab coats?”
“Doctor Kool’s requirement. Everyone in the lab has to wear one.”
Connell glanced at O’Doyle’s clothes: black slacks, long-sleeve black shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“He didn’t ask you to wear one?”
“He did,” O’Doyle said. “I told him, I would prefer not to. He didn’t ask again.”
Connell couldn’t blame Angus for that.
“You’ve been here the last three days?”
O’Doyle nodded. “As you requested. And Doctor Kool has been here the entire time. I’ll be honest, Mister Kirkland — I’ve never met anyone who can get by on less sleep than I can. If he’s not snorting cocaine when I’m not looking, you should have someone dissect him, find out what makes him tick and patent it. That would be worth more than all the precious metals in the world combined.”
Connell shrugged; wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned dissecting Angus Kool.
“And the computer system remains isolated?”
“Completely,” O’Doyle said. “I followed protocol to the letter. Computers working on internal databases only, all connections to the Internet shut down. I confiscated … I mean … I requested everyone’s cell phones when they entered. No one can even open an email that might allow a worm in. But may I speak freely, sir?”
“This isn’t the military, O’Doyle. I’m your boss, not your commanding officer.”
“The only difference between those two, sir, is how you fire someone.”
O’Doyle waited.
“I don’t get it,” Connell said.
“It’s a firing-line joke. Execution for dereliction of duty.”
“Hysterical. You’re very funny.”
The big man nodded. “That’s what my men always told me, sir.”
“Perhaps you could move on to the speaking freely part?”
“Right,” O’Doyle said. “I know computers, but I’m not an expert. Maybe you should have a certain female who might or might not be involved in the farming industry check things out, just to be sure?”
Connell shook his head. Like he was going to tell Farm Girl about any of this. She was only as loyal as the highest bidder, and for what this find might become, other companies would bid very high indeed.
“She’s one of the reasons I have everything isolated in the first place,” he said. “Some people just can’t be trusted. How’s the rest of the lab staff doing?”
“They’re tired, but working. Doctor Kool is a slave driver. If it wouldn’t be an insult to my old drill sergeant, I’d say he reminds me of my old drill sergeant.”
The mention of the word tired made Connell take another look around. Ten staffers. They all looked exhausted.
“Angus is pushing them hard?”
“Nonstop,” O’Doyle said. “Nothing they do satisfies him.”
Angus stood on the other side of the large lab, oblivious to Connell. He moved like he was made of caffeine.
“You call these results?” the little man said, practically screaming at a small, black-haired woman, a sheaf of computer printouts clutched in his hands. Connell vaguely remembered the woman’s name — Tina something-or-other. He remembered hiring her shortly before Cori’s death.
Lab workers flinched as Angus’s arrogant, nasal voice filled the room.
“I said, do you call these results, Katerina?”
Katerina. That was it. Katerina Hayes.
She glared back at Angus, her expression fierce despite the tears brimming in her eyes.
“I’ve double-checked the metallurgical analysis,” she said. “It’s consistent.”
Angus threw the report. The pages spread out like a flock of birds, then fluttered to the ground.
“Do it again! That work isn’t fit for an undergrad, for God’s sake! Do it again! And make it quick — this repetitive work is making you fall behind.”
O’Doyle spoke quietly.
“He picks on her the most. I looked at her files. IQ of one hundred and fifty-six. I wonder how Doctor Kool would treat a dumb old soldier like me if I worked under him.”
“You’re far from dumb,” Connell said. “And besides, if he were your boss, I imagine you’d have already strangled him.”
O’Doyle shook his scarred head. “Oh, no sir. I’d use a knife.”
Connell laughed and was a little surprised to hear the noise escape his lips. Did he laugh so rarely that it sounded strange to him? No way to live a life, really. Then he remembered sitting in his car, closing his eyes and wishing that the last five years hadn’t happened — all traces of humor faded away.
“Your prep for security at the dig,” Connell said. “Any problems?”
“No sir. I’m drawing personnel from five other EarthCore sites. I’ve hired a different temp security agency to fill the vacancies at each of those five sites, so we should avoid word getting out that we’ve pulled all of our experienced guards at the same time.”
“Smart,” Connell said. “And your equipment needs?”
O’Doyle grinned. The missing ear was disturbing enough, but that smile was a close runner-up.
“Your budget was quite sufficient, Mister Kirkland. I felt like a kid in a candy store.”
“Good. Keep me updated.”
Connell walked toward Angus. O’Doyle trailed a step behind. Angus saw Connell coming. Surprise — then haughty anger — spread across his face. He straightened his lab coat. Charlie Brown, Snoopy and Pigpen pins decorated his lapel.
“Well, if it isn’t the king himself,” Angus said. “Come down from your ivory tower to watch your lowly serfs toil?”
Connell wondered how anyone could work day in and day out with this jackass and not punch him in the face.
“Doctor Kool, I hope you’ve got something for me other than a surly attitude.”
Angus nodded, making his wild red hair bob.
“I’ve got something, all right. We’ve been processing the data Randy collected. We discovered a rather large anomaly of extremely dense material, about three miles underground.”
Connell felt that spark of excitement, the one that came when his efforts finally paid off. It was the only thing that thrilled him anymore.
“So you found it,” he said. “We’re in business.”
Angus waggled a finger side to side.
“Not so fast. While I would love to render unto Caesar and all that jazz, there are still many questions. Up on the surface, we haven’t found anything indicative of a large platinum deposit. With the dust McGuiness collected, I expected to see biogeochemical evidence of a deposit. The roots of some trees and plants gather elements from the ground and transmit them to the leaves. Juniper bushes, for example, which are common at the Wah Wah site, can send roots as far as a hundred and sixty feet below the surface.”
That thrill of discovery ratcheted back, like a rushing junkyard dog reaching the end of her chain just before biting into the trespasser.
“You’re telling me the biogeo turned up nothing?”
Angus grinned, shrugged. He enjoyed being the bearer of bad news.
“Not a damned thing,” he said. “Some iron deposits but no platinum. Or any other valuable mineral.”
“What about metallogenic?”
O’Doyle leaned in. “I get biogeo, but what does metallogenic mean?”
Angus sneered. “You know what biogeochemical analysis is?”
The scarred solder smiled. “I’ve been here three days. I’ve paid attention.”
“Well, whoop-de-fucking-do for you, Rhodes scholar,” Angus said. “I’m afraid I left my gold stars in my other pants.”
“Knock it off,” Connell snapped. “You should be nicer to O’Doyle, Angus.”
The little scientist crossed his white-sleeved arms.
“Why’s that? Did I miss a Miss Manners clause in my contract?”
“Because Mister O’Doyle is going to be on-site with you,” Connell said. “He’ll be protecting you day and night. You know, with lots of guns, that sort of thing.”
The snotty grin faded. Angus glanced at the big man.
“That’s right,” O’Doyle said. “Even while you sleep.”
Angus nervously licked his lips.
“Ah, well, then I’m sure we’ll all be quite safe. You were asking about metallogenic analysis?”
O’Doyle nodded. “I do love to learn.”
“Metal ores often appear in groups,” Angus said. “Various minerals in a given area can reveal probable locations of undiscovered deposits. Platinum can be found mixed in with copper, nickel and palladium, for example. The trouble with the McGuiness discovery is that we’ve found absolutely zero elements commonly associated with a platinum deposit. In addition, ore deposits can leave surface discolorations. Randy saw none of those in his surface flyovers.”
This wasn’t the picture Connell had been hoping for. Not even close.
“You have something else, then,” he said. “If the site was a bust, I know you’d revel in being the one to tell me.”
Angus put a hand to his chest.
“You wound me, sir, to think that I would feel schadenfreude at such a thing.”
“I won’t even pretend to know what the fuck that word means,” Connell said. “You’re the smartest kid in the class. We get it. I want to know if you found something we can use or not.”
Angus smiled his self-satisfied smile.
“We do have some good news, thanks to advanced tomographic techniques I’ve developed.”
“Tom-ographic?” O’Doyle said. “Do you mean top-ographic?”
Connell winced. He’d made a similar statement a few years back. Angus loved it when people thought he had made a mistake.
“No, Mr. O’Doyle, I do not,” Angus said. “Topography is mapping the surface. Tomography is mapping the ground itself, the shape and the contours of various substances and densities. Here’s an easy trick that even you can remember — the top in topography means up on top. Get it?”
O’Doyle didn’t answer.
Connell longed to wipe that arrogant sneer from Angus’s face.
“Angus here is an expert on tomography,” he said. “You’re standing in the presence of greatness, Mister O’Doyle.”
“Ah, that’s what it is,” O’Doyle said. “And here I thought someone farted.”
Angus ignored the remark.
“Ground-penetrating radar, known simply as GPR, can map the contours of solid ground by sending radar waves into the earth and charting the time of their echo, much like you might use standard radar to locate a plane in the sky. Current GPR techniques allow a maximum of a thousand-foot penetration below the surface. My new method, however, allows you to penetrate up to sixteen thousand feet — over three miles. That’s eight times better than anyone else in the world, I’d like to note.”
It was moments like this that Connell reminded himself why he put up with the horrible attitude. Angus thought of himself as the shit because that’s exactly what he was.
“Just show us what you’ve found,” Connell said.
Angus turned to a computer terminal and called up a graphic of tightly packed vertical lines of varying height.
“This peak here is our anomalous dense area.” He pointed to the longest line on the graphic. “Notice how much higher it is than everything else? That’s because it’s dense. Really dense, much more so than the surrounding rock, which indicates that if it’s metal ore it’s very high-grade.”
“If,” Connell said. “You can’t tell me with certainty that we have ore at all?”
Angus shook his head. “No, not with certainty. Part of the problem is that we had a lot of noise in the signal, like very weak, very soft areas throughout the mountain. To bolster our data, we took geophone readings. We detonated high explosives throughout the area and measured the echoes. It’s just like taking a CAT scan except we measure the travel time of the seismic waves resulting from the explosions rather than X-rays sent through the patient. I combined this with the GPR readings to map the whole area.”
Angus called up a three-dimensional image. The picture showed a solid green mass at the center, clearly oblong in shape but broken up in many places. A bright yellow envelope surrounded the green mass. Faded yellow vein-like branches extended in all directions, but mostly up and away from the mass. Only one straight, thick yellow vein pointed down, protruding from the center of the green mass until it fuzzed and faded to nothing. The picture gave the overall impression of a neon-green sea anemone waving hundreds of thin yellow tendrils through the water.
Connell was used to seeing similar pictures, courtesy of Angus’s cutting-edge talents, but normally the screen was also dotted with a plethora of colors and shapes representing myriad rocks and minerals. Even the most concentrated deposit images showed at least a dozen significant changes in color. The yellow branches were new as well.
“What am I seeing here?”
“Well, the green is what I call the Dense Mass. Whatever that chunk is, it’s all the same density.”
“So the same material,” Connell said. “Why are you only showing that? Usually these images show other mineral deposits.”
“It doesn’t show any because there aren’t any.” Angus shrugged. “That’s what’s so strange about all this. That mountain is a big, solid, worthless chunk of limestone. There’s some low-grade iron ore, but that’s it. I filtered it out of the map so we could really see what’s there — limestone, and the Dense Mass.”
Connell wanted to touch the green image. He kept his hands at his sides. His fingertips brushed against his thumbs.
“You think that’s platinum ore, don’t you.”
“I don’t think it’s ore at all,” Angus said. “I think the Dense Mass is the same platinum/iridium compound that makes up Sonny’s dust.”
“Fuck me,” O’Doyle said.
Connell stared at the image. Part of him wanted to slap Angus for the slow reveal. Why hadn’t the jackass just come right out and said we’re onto something so big it could change the world’s economy?
“How big, Angus?” Connell’s fingertips moved faster.
“About four miles long.” The little man’s arrogant smile was gone. He stared at the image just as reverently as Connell did. “Four miles long, a little over a half mile wide. We don’t know how deep because it goes below the bottom of my equipment’s max range.”
If that really was platinum/iridium, a fucking solid chunk of it … the value wasn’t even calculable, because it had the potential to dwarf the world’s entire supply of the stuff.
O’Doyle grunted in amazement, an mmm-MMM-mmm that made him sound oddly like an old Southern man seeing some newfangled invention for the first time.
“Just one big chunk,” he said. “That can happen? It’s like the world’s biggest nugget or something?”
Angus stared into the image, right hand rubbing slowly at his cheeks and jaw. If he’d been capable of growing a beard, he would have been stroking it.
“Platinum can form naturally, sure,” he said. “You can find a nugget of it just like you can find a nugget of gold or silver or copper. That’s rare, though. Most often metal is locked up within rock. A nugget that’s four miles long? It was a crazy day in Earth’s history when that bauble got coughed up from down below.”
“Maybe it’s an asteroid,” O’Doyle said.
Angus nodded. “Could be, but something that big would likely have broken up into several pieces. Doubtful it could stay in one chunk. And the crater would have been massive. There’d still be some evidence of it, even if the impact was a billion years ago. There’s no indication of such a crater.”
Connell glanced around the lab, seeing if anyone was looking. Did the rest of the staff know this already? If so, had they told spouses? Kids? Was word already out?
“It gets odder,” Angus said. “The yellow lines — the soft stuff I told you about — it’s not rock. It’s not anything. As near as I can tell, those are caves.”
Connell stared at the image anew. Tunnels. Some of the yellow lines seemed tiny, threadlike, while others were thick and solid, connecting yellow blobs that had to be caverns.
“It’s the largest cave system in the world,” Angus said. “To date, the largest individual cavern ever found, located in Nevada’s Carlsbad Caverns, covers over fourteen square miles with a ceiling as high as two hundred and fifty feet. These Dense Mass Caverns are much bigger than that. There’s one kidney-shaped cavern at the GPR’s bottom-edge range that may be as big as twenty-five square miles, with a ceiling over a thousand feet high. On top of that, the Dense Mass Cavern itself is roughly another ten square miles. I’ve never seen anything like this — no one has. We’ve made one hell of a discovery here. So far, the longest known system is the Flint-Mammoth Caves in Kentucky with over three hundred miles of known tunnels. I estimate the Dense Mass cave system covers six hundred fifty miles of tunnels, and about three hundred fifteen total square miles of cavern.”
O’Doyle let out a long, low whistle of amazement.
“This is all good and fine,” Connell said. “But it doesn’t mean anything until we confirm that the Dense Mass is worth digging up. How long until we get a sample?”
“A diamond rig is on the way to the site,” Angus said. “Randy will handle it. Although at that depth, it’s going to take us at least two weeks to get all the way down.”
Connell nodded. “That’s fine, as long as we’re moving forward.”
Now came the million-dollar question. Or, in this case, the billion — or trillion — dollar question.
“Deepest mine in the world is Ventersdorp,” Connell said. “Two point eight miles. They’ve been digging that for twenty years. We don’t have twenty years, Angus, so I have to know. Don’t bullshit me, don’t pad the truth, don’t show me how smart you are, just tell me — can your laser drill go deeper than that?”
The redhead’s eyes lit up, crinkled with aggressive pride.
“Goddamn right it can,” he said. “I’ve been waiting years for a chance like this. My drill will change mining forever.”
Connell nodded. That was probably true. And if it did, Angus would sell his patented technology to every company that wanted it. That was in his contract, that was his right, and Connell didn’t care. Angus could have all that money and more. If that Dense Mass turned out to contain platinum, EarthCore would instantly become the richest company in the world.
The richest company in history.
“My drill can punch that hole,” Angus said. “But that far down, geothermal heat changes the game. No one in EarthCore has managed a mine even half that deep. Getting to the Dense Mass is only half the battle — you have to find someone who can bring it back up.”
“I’ve got someone in mind,” Connell said. “I need you on-site tomorrow to manage the core sample and make sure the drill setup goes off without a hitch.”
Angus nodded, so hard his stiff red hair flipped back and forth.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Boss Kirkland. I’m on it like a priest on a choirboy.”
Connell saw a gleam in Angus’s eyes, a gleam he didn’t like at all. The little man was probably dreaming spelunking dreams, planning on exploring the vast tunnels beneath that Wah Wah Mountain. Connell would have to make sure someone had eyes on Angus all the time, lest the wee genius skip off to do some exploring.
“Get me that sample,” Connell said. “You don’t mind if I use your office, do you?”
Angus bristled, then forced a smile.
“Mi casa es su casa, señor.”
Connell glanced at O’Doyle.
“A word, please?”
They entered Angus’s office. O’Doyle shut the door.
“You want me to lock the lab down,” he said. “No one leaves, right?”
Connell nodded, impressed. “How did you know?”
“Like I said, Mister Kirkland, I’m a fast learner. While Angus has been whipping the backs of everyone here — everyone except me, of course — I’ve been studying. The South Africans and the Russians mostly control the world’s platinum supply. Zimbabwe’s Darwendale is producing well, but since the Russians run that, same difference. Forced scarcity keeps prices high. We introduce a massive new supply, and prices go down. Know who doesn’t like prices to go down?”
“Russians and South Africans,” Connell said.
“That’s my guess. So, if word gets out about what we might have, and those guys get wind of it … let’s just say EarthCore isn’t the only company to employ people like me.”
People like me. Connell had hired O’Doyle because Kayla Meyers said he was the man for the job, yet Connell still knew so little about him.
“You hit the nail right on the head, Mister O’Doyle. Fantastic initiative.”
The big man beamed.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll inform the staff they can’t leave. I assume I have a discretionary budget to provide them with anything they want that will make this stay easier?”
“Sure, good idea.” After all, what did additional expenses matter? He was precariously close to putting all of EarthCore’s eggs into this one basket. It was coming to a head very quickly: EarthCore would be either broke or sitting on a mountain of money.
“And reassign non-lab staff to help them,” Connell said. “Pay for family members to come to Denver. Uncles, aunts, grandparents, that sort of thing. Make sure the kids have someone who knows them taking them to school. Hire cooks and drivers and cleaning ladies, et cetera. Can you handle all that?”
O’Doyle nodded.
“Absolutely, Mister Kirkland. If you don’t mind me saying so, bonuses would be the sugar that helps the medicine go down.”
Bonuses. Why not?
“Triple their prorated salary for as long as this goes on,” he said. “That should do it.”
“I’ll start immediately. I’m sure I can have everyone situated in the next twenty-four hours, before I head to the site myself.”
Not counting Angus, there were eleven staffers in the lab. O’Doyle was going to manage setting up care for all their families? In a single day?
“Mister O’Doyle, just what kind of soldier were you?”
The big man’s smile pulled at his scar tissue. “The kind that can think on his feet, sir. Other than that, you know my background is—”
“Classified,” Connell said, nodding. “I know, I shouldn’t have asked. Just get this done for me.”
O’Doyle reached out, opened the office door and held it for Connell.
“Absolutely, sir.”
Sometimes, you hired people who turned into flaming assholes. Other times, you got the right person for the job.
“See you in Utah,” Connell said, then headed to his car.
• • •
“Be careful,” Sonny said. “It’s a sharp sonofabitch.”
Dr. Hector Rodriguez lifted the heavy, double-crescent-shaped knife by the hole in its center. There really wasn’t any other way to pick it up. No handle, just the two curved blades, each finely edged on both sides. He could only fit two chubby fingers inside the ring.
“Around twelve pounds, maybe,” he said.
“Fifteen,” Sonny answered. “Fifteen pounds, one ounce.”
Hector tried to adjust his grip on the metal ring. When he did, the smooth metal slid across his skin — the knife turned. The tip grazed a finger.
“Oh my,” Hector said, looking at the red rivulet cascading down his wrist. Blood drops splattered the layers of paper that covered his desktop. He grabbed a handful of Kleenex and squeezed it around the fresh wound.
“Shit, Hec,” Sonny said, standing and leaning forward. “You okay?”
“Oh, sit down, Sonny. Just because I’m a professor doesn’t mean I’m a wuss. It’s just a little cut. I can’t believe how sharp that thing is. What idiot would sharpen an artifact?”
“Don’t think anyone sharpened it,” Sonny said. “Don’t think it’s been touched since they put it in storage.”
Hector let out a small harrumph and looked at the knife sitting on his desktop. A smear of blood streaked to the jagged edge.
Sonny pointed to it. “So you don’t recognize it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Hector said. “I’ve never seen anything like this. And you’re sure this came from our archives?”
“That’s right. Was in a metal box. Hasn’t been touched in so long the lock was rusty. I don’t think anyone’s opened the sucker in decades, but it was right there, on a shelf. Anyone could have grabbed it.”
Hector shook his head, marveling that such a beautiful object had been forgotten. There was an enormous amount of material in the anthropology archives, to be sure. Most material was tagged, cataloged and carefully stored on a shelf or safely in boxes. The thing was, there was just so much stuff — boxes and boxes of artifacts brought in by staff and students in the ’40s, ’50s, ’60s and on. Even cataloged material could be forgotten. University basements and storage buildings bulged with the stuff.
That didn’t mean missing something this unique wasn’t embarrassing, though. At least it wasn’t as bad as some places. He’d read about a new sauropod species that had sat on a shelf of London’s Natural History Museum for over a century before a computer programmer and part-time paleontologist discovered what decades of professionals had simply overlooked.
“Come on, Hec,” Sonny said. “You gotta know what tribe made this.”
Sonny McGuiness was such an interesting man. Aside from the fact that he was a huge donor to the Anthropology Department, his wrinkled, brightly bearded face could light up with the energy of a six-year-old staring at a mountain of birthday presents.
Hector just didn’t recognize it. But … was there something about it that seemed familiar?
“Maybe I’ve seen that shape somewhere,” he said. “I just can’t place it. Whatever it is, it’s obscure. Not part of any peoples or cultures from the Southwest.”
They sat in Hector’s tiny, disaster-area-messy office buried in the Archaeology Department’s basement. Sonny’s face was very familiar to the staff, who were always eager to provide him any help he requested. This time, however, Sonny came in with another man, a dangerous-looking Asian fellow named Cho something-or-other. Perfect hair. Insisted on wearing his sunglasses indoors.
The shape of the knife … that shape … where had Hector seen it before?
“How long has it been down in the archives?”
“Since 1941,” Sonny said. “A graduate student found it, in an area I’m currently prospecting.”
Hector peeked inside the ball of Kleenex pressed to his finger. Blood welled up instantly, and he squeezed back down again.
“Gonna need stitches,” Cho said. “Trust me, I know cuts.”
He smiled. The smile made Hector nervous.
Hector turned his attention back to Sonny. “How did you come to find a box that we … wait … you said the box was locked?”
“Yes, was,” Cho said. “Tenses, man. Grammar is important.”
Hector decided he’d rather not ask why the two men had opened up locked university property.
“Anyway,” he said, “how did you find out about it?”
Sonny reached out, pressed the flat of his finger against the flat of the gleaming blade. He lifted the finger, leaving a visible print.
“Research,” he said. “Y’all don’t even know what you’ve got around here. More stuff in that library and that museum than you’ll ever know, Hec.”
Hector sighed. “Tell me about it. Just not enough hours in the day. I remember when—”
He stopped in mid-sentence, the image of the knife’s shape finally crystallizing in his mind.
Sonny smiled: too-white teeth, the same shade as his beard.
“You got something?”
Hector turned to the impossibly overstuffed bookshelves and riffled through reams of loose papers. “I recall that shape. A former BYU student found something similar. In the Andes, I think. A Doctor Veronica Reeves from the University of Michigan. Her father works in the Biology Department. I’ve got the article here somewhere. A blurb in Scientific American, maybe.”
Hector sifted through his endless morass of papers. No, not that pile. Maybe the pile by the window. No, not there, either. Maybe the pile up on the shelf …
Sonny stood. “Hec, if you figure it out, call me. We need to get going.”
He reached for the knife.
Hector’s hand shot out before he even knew he was moving. The Kleenex flew free as he laid his fingers against the flat of a crescent blade. Blood streamed from his cut, beading up on the gleaming metal.
“You can’t take that.”
Sonny’s hand was still halfway to the knife. His white eyebrows rose.
“Sorry,” Hector said. He forced a smile, cognizant that the blood from his finger was pooling on his desk, already soaking into a pile of midterm reports. “University property, Sonny. I appreciate you bringing this to our attention, but you can’t take it with you. You understand.”
Sonny seemed poised to argue. The Asian man stood by quietly, calmly, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
“Of course,” Sonny said. “Yeah, of course.”
Cho slowly shook his head.
“Mister Kirkland will want to see that knife,” he said. “We should take it with us. You don’t mind, do you, Hector?”
Nice words, nice words that carried a not-so-disguised threat.
“I most certainly do mind.”
Sonny held up both hands, an everyone calm down gesture.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Of course we’ll leave the knife here.”
Cho’s head swiveled to Sonny.
“I repeat — Mister Kirkland will want to see that.”
“Heard you the first time,” Sonny said. “And what Mister Kirkland wants doesn’t matter. Let’s go.” He tipped his head toward the door.
Cho glanced at Hector, at the knife, then back to Hector. He pointed to Hector’s finger.
“Stitches,” he said. “Sooner is better than later.”
Hector nodded. “I’ll get right on that.”
Cho’s lips twitched to the left, stayed there, then he shrugged and walked out.
Sonny spread his hands apologetically.
“Sorry about that, Hec. Kids these days.”
Hector picked up the bloody Kleenex, again squeezed it tight on his wounded finger.
“Sonny, it’s not my business, but how well do you know that man?”
“Couple of days is all. I’m working with a new company. He came with the deal.”
As far as Hector knew, Sonny had always operated alone.
“Just be careful,” he said. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Sonny grinned. “You know me, Hec. I’m bulletproof. Get that finger fixed and call me if you figure out where you saw the knife, okay?”
Hector nodded. He was glad Sonny was bulletproof … but was he knife proof?
The knife … that shape …
Hector squeezed tighter. He probably did need stitches, dammit. Blood all over his desk. But that article, it was here somewhere. As soon as he found it, he’d go get the finger looked at. He tore off a big strip of Scotch tape and wrapped it tightly around the reddening Kleenex. Good enough for now, anyway.
Twenty minutes after Sonny and Cho left, Hector found the magazine in question. Dr. Reeves’s Andes find wasn’t some obscure article, and it wasn’t in Scientific American. A double-crescent knife — exactly like the one sitting on his desk — graced the cover of National Geographic.
Hector dialed an office in the Biology Department. It was answered by a man with a thick Indian accent.
“Doctor Haak speaking.”
“Sanji, Hector Rodriguez in Archaeology.”
“Ah, Hector! How can I help you this fine afternoon?”
“Is Veronica still up in the Andes? Can you reach her?”
“She is still there, yes,” Sanji said. “Not many phones where she is, but she checks in regularly enough. I can reach her. Why?”
Hector stared at the knife as he talked. The center ring reflected his face, distorted and curved against the metal.
“You better come to my office,” he said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Hector hung up and stared at the magazine, amazed he hadn’t instantly made the connection. After all, it wasn’t every day that a BYU alum’s work graced the cover of National Geographic.
The cover showed a well-lit double-crescent blade gleaming against a black velvet background.
White block letters read: MOUNT FITZ ROY: FORGOTTEN UNDERGROUND METROPOLIS.