The Mine

THE MINE

A novel by

John A. Heldt

Copyright © 2012 by John A. Heldt

Edited by Aaron Yost and Amy Heldt

Cover art by Cannon Colegrove

Photo by Jurvetson (flickr)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

NOVELS BY JOHN A. HELDT

Northwest Passage Series

The Mine

The Journey

The Show

The Fire

Follow John A. Heldt online at:

johnheldt.blogspot.com

To Cheryl

CHAPTER 1

Helena, Montana – Memorial Day, May 29, 2000

Joel eyed the remains and laughed at the animal that had caused the carnage. The carnivore had done damage, serious damage, to the thing that covered most of his plate. But even serious damage was not a mortal blow, not to a 24-ounce porterhouse. They would have to leave it behind. Doggie bags didn't cut it on ten-hour drives home.

"I told you to ask the waitress," Joel said. "This is Montana. Things are big here – and different. They probably have a steer in the kitchen."

"I believe it," Adam said, staring at his steak with eyes smaller than his stomach. "It says on the menu they serve only free-range beef."

"There you go."

Joel stirred his iced tea. He had played it safe with a pasty, a meat-and-potato pie popular with Welsh and Cornish immigrants who had worked Montana's hard-rock mines in the early 1900s. If it was good enough for them, and the flirtatious redheaded waitress who had recommended it, it was good enough for Joel Smith. He liked trying new things, which is why he had overruled his fast-food-loving best friend in favor of a restaurant listed among the state's must-do culinary experiences.

The Canary's decor stood out as well. The diner was an eclectic shrine to every era since the Roaring Twenties. The thirty-foot bar, with its Formica countertop, glass block trim, steel cabinets, floor-mounted stools, and black-and-white checked floor, gave the joint a solid art-deco foundation. An antique brass cash register stood proudly beside a modern, functional cousin. Hardwood booths, upholstered in shiny red leather, lined the opposing wall and neatly framed everything from classic movie posters and college pennants to signed photographs of Harry Truman, Gary Cooper, and Evel Knievel.

Joel turned away from his half-finished lunch and watched a man put a nickel in an original Wurlitzer Peacock jukebox. The record player occupied prime real estate near the entrance, not far from the establishment's signature neon display. The Canary, the sign insisted, had served Montana's finest meals since 1925. The only conspicuous sops to the present were ceiling-mounted, 24-inch, flat-screen televisions at each end of the bar. Even fans of nostalgia needed ESPN.

"They don't make places like this anymore."

"No, they don't," Adam said. "Maybe Marlon Brando will bring us dessert."

He took off his sunglasses and cleared a space around his plate.

"Damn, this is a big steak!"

"Quit bitchin' and eat."

Joel glanced at the keychain next to his paper napkin. Yellowstone. The embossed leather curio was one of several impulse buys on a five-day trip to Wyoming. The college students from Seattle, three weeks from graduation, had decided to clear their heads of texts and tests and hike and bike America's oldest national park.

"Did you have a good time?"

"You know I did," Adam said. "But next time, for God's sake, let's take Rachel and Jana."

"I thought you two were done."

"We were, or at least I thought we were. But she's been nice to me lately, and I'm afraid this trip might be a momentum breaker. With Rachel, everything is complicated."

"Get serious," Joel said. "Five days won't break anything."

"I
am
serious. I can't read her. Not like I used to."

"Tell you what. I'll say you stood down a grizzly or freed Bambi from barbed wire. She'll sleep with you all summer. Now, finish up. I want to see more of Montana."

Joel silently conceded Adam's point. The girls would have been great company. For that reason alone, he had considered inviting them. But he did not want to send the wrong message. After dating Jana Lamoreaux off and on for two years, he wanted a break. Not that there was anything wrong with her. Hell no. Kind, funny, girl-next-door pretty, and bound for Stanford Law, Jana was as good as it got. But Joel did not love her, at least not enough to make commitments. She deserved honesty, if not someone better.

A different distraction snapped Joel back to the here and now. The twentyish waitress sauntered down the long bar, wiping messy spots en route with the grace of a dancer. She wore a pink pinstriped uniform and a spotted white apron. Neither did much to hide curves that could kill. She had topped off Joel's bottomless ice tea four times in thirty minutes and was now back for his plate. Once again, she appeared in no hurry.

"Will that be all today?"

"For me? Yes," Joel said. "For the velociraptor? Maybe not."

She laughed and then smiled at Adam.

"I can get a box for that."

"No, thanks," he said, mouth full. "I'm good."

Joel handed the server a credit card. He noted the name "Sarah" pinned to her outfit and visually attended her return to the register.

"I think she likes you. I'm pretty sure I saw some wink action." Joel turned to face his friend. "It makes sense too. What woman wouldn't want a lean, mean, red-meat-eating machine who mumbles and grunts?"

"Shut the hell up, Smith. You picked this place, remember?"

"I'd come here again too. Now hurry up."

Joel observed a large family sliding into a booth behind him and then glanced at the television screen above Adam's head. It was set to a cable news channel.

"Hey, check it out. I read about this yesterday."

Waitress Sarah made her final call on Carnivore Central. She handed Joel a curled receipt, which he straightened, signed, and returned with a generous tip.

"Here you go," he said.

Joel tightened his hold on the paper slip when Sarah attempted to pull it from his hand. Five seconds and two smiles passed before he loosened his grip. The hue of her cheeks suddenly matched that of her curly, pony-tailed hair.

"Thanks." Sarah's playful green eyes lingered on the paying customer. "You guys have a great day."

"You too," Joel said, grinning. He returned his wallet to its rightful pocket. "Say, just one more thing. Can you turn up the sound on the TV? I'd like to hear this story."

"Sure." Sarah grabbed a small remote under the counter, adjusted the volume, and handed the device to Joel. "You can leave it here when you're done."

She walked back to the register, glanced once more at the big tipper, and then directed her full attention to a heavy-set woman with questions about pies.

Joel increased the volume, eyed the screen, and listened to the news anchor.

"Astronomers are calling this the most significant planetary conjunction in almost sixty years. For twenty-four hours, beginning about noon Eastern Daylight Time, six planets from our solar system will fall into a rough alignment with the sun. More on this from our science editor."

Another family moved into a nearby booth, creating additional background noise. Joel picked up the remote and pressed the top audio button until he detected a hard stare from a burly, middle-aged man sitting at Adam's right. He pressed the bottom button.

"At that point, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, in addition to our own moon, will be more or less positioned in a line with the sun."

The man, still glaring, got off his stool and walked to the restroom.

"For millennia such alignments have spawned dire predictions of global calamities, but experts insist that the distance to the planets is too great for their gravity or magnetic fields to have a discernible effect on the Earth."

Joel hit the mute button and gently placed the remote on the counter. He observed a growing, restless assembly in the diner's tiny, gum-machine-lined lobby as Smiling Sarah, sans smile, barked an order to the kitchen. The Canary's lunch rush was on.

"Come on. Let's go."

Adam did not respond. He instead continued his mission. Fork in hand, he hoisted the last piece of steak and studied it like a rare gem.

"Wow," he said with Ben Stein enthusiasm. "Six planets."

He finished his meal.

"Hope nothing weird happens today."

CHAPTER 2

Twenty minutes, seven stoplights, and ten miles after Adam Levy popped a half-dozen antacid tablets outside the restaurant, Joel found open road.

U.S. Route 12 spanned 2,483 miles from Aberdeen, Washington, to Detroit. For most Americans along that stretch, it was no more than an afterthought co-signed with Interstates 90 and 94. But for motorists in Helena, Montana, it had star billing as the only way out of Dodge going east or west.

Joel aimed his red 1998 Toyota RAV4 west, toward the Continental Divide, and repositioned his trim, six-foot frame in a bucket seat. On each side of the four-lane highway, low-lying fields of wheatgrass gave way to brown hills and green mountains. New homes encroached on tracts of Ponderosa pine.

"Put on some tunes," Joel said.

"What do you want?"

"Road music. Something classic."

Adam reached into a zippered fabric case, examined the contents, and pulled out a CD by R.E.M. He eased it into a slot in the dash, pushed the case under his seat, and resumed staring at a wallet photo of a long-haired brunette.

In seconds, "It's the End of the World as We Know It" blared through six speakers and reminded Joel that he had failed to turn in his ten-page term paper on Jurassic ecosystems. But he didn't care. Even a severely docked grade would not cost him his degree in geology. He reached across the console and turned up the volume.

"A fine choice, Jeeves!"

Joel shifted gears and accelerated. He loved driving his nimble sport utility vehicle, whether splattering mud on potholed Forest Service roads, darting through Seattle’s snarled freeways, or blowing past annoyingly slow trucks, like the eighteen-wheeler packing potato chips in front of him. He pointed to the back of the brightly colored rig.

"Do you see that, Adam? Right there, in big black letters. He wants us to know how he is driving. Call that number and let him know. I think our good buddy is having a bad clutch day."

"Joel?"

"Yeah."

"Montana has a speed limit now. Ninety is no longer 'reasonable and prudent.'"

"Moot point," Joel said, tapping the brakes. "Construction ahead."

Joel followed a row of cones to the right lane and pulled up at a rural intersection behind three vehicles and a sweaty, expressionless young woman holding a stop sign. Another road maintenance crewman, a husky gent with an orange hardhat, matching vest, and Grover Cleveland mustache, approached the Toyota. Joel rolled down his window.

"It'll be about twenty minutes, fellas," he said. "You just missed the pilot car."

Adam slumped in his seat.

"No problem," Joel said.

Joel scanned his surroundings. To his left he saw a long gravel driveway that led to a ranch-style home nestled in a grove of pine trees. To his right he saw Gold Mine Road, a paved local route that extended north into the hills. He returned to the crewman just as he started toward the next car.

"Excuse me, sir," Joel shouted. Grover Cleveland turned his head. "Is there really a gold mine up there?"

"It's an abandoned mine. It went out of business a hundred years ago."

"I see. Can we drive around the construction on that road?"

"Sure. But I don't recommend it unless you have an hour to kill and four tires to trash. The road turns to crap a few miles up. We had a lot of rain in April."

"Thanks."

Joel turned on the ignition, shifted into first gear, and pulled out of what was now a quarter-mile line in the westbound lanes. He proceeded slowly along the highway's paved shoulder to the intersection and turned right.

"What are you doing?" Adam asked.

"I'm putting spice in your life."

CHAPTER 3