The Mine (3 page)

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 just 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.

Joel observed people on the street. They too provided no comfort. Men in suits and hats walked beside women in dresses and hats – hats with brims and nets and flowers, not logos of grunge bands or baseball teams or even tractor manufacturers. Central Casting could not have outfitted the city any better. Only two young men, standing on a street corner in work shirts and dungarees, looked remotely contemporary.

Sam, thankfully, kept any questions he had to himself. He did not ask about Joel's Candy in Chains sweatshirt or why a tourist from Seattle was investigating an abandoned mine far off the beaten path. He limited his comments to observations about the weather and the impact of the economy on new car sales.

He turned onto Main Street, or Last Chance Gulch, as it was signed a few hours earlier, and pulled into a metered parking space in front of the Canary. The diner, tucked between a bar and a smoke shop in a three-story granite building that occupied half a block, did not have a neon sign. Nor did it boast a flashy red awning. But it was the same place and appeared just as busy as the one that had provided Joel his last meal.

Joel opened the door and stepped out of the Buick.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Any time," Sam said.

He pulled away from the curb, slowed down long enough to watch Joel's next move through his passenger-side mirror, and then drove out of sight.

Joel gracefully dodged two preschool-aged boys running down the sidewalk and entered the Canary for the second time that day. The interior looked much the same. The jukebox and not-so-antique cash register assumed their usual places and the bar, stools, and booths appeared completely unchanged. No televisions hung from the ceiling, of course, and a Frowning Frida had replaced Smiling Sarah. The thirtyish waitress warmed up as she approached the new customer.

"Will it just be one today?"

"Actually, I'm looking for a friend." Joel removed his hat. "He's my age, a little shorter, with curly black hair, and wearing a Red Sox jersey. He left his sunglasses here this morning. Have you seen him?"

"Can't say I have, hon. But it's been busy. Let me ask Esther. She's working the other tables."

Frida flipped the top sheet of her order pad and walked through an open door into the restaurant's kitchen. The sound and smell of sizzling beef filled the lobby.

Joel again took stock of the diner. More than thirty people filled the joint, occupying most of its booths and stools. Business conversations dominated, though the party closest to him, two women dressed for a Bible study, buzzed endlessly about a neighbor girl who had "gotten into trouble." Joel thought about Marty McFly, the likelihood that this was all a nightmare, and turning that rattlesnake into sushi.

Frida rushed out of the kitchen, dividing her attention between the customer who wanted information and a customer who probably wanted a hamburger. She approached the one with the dimples and shook her head.

"No one has seen him," she said. "And we'd remember if we had. Almost all of our patrons are regulars. Sorry."

"No problem. Thanks for checking it out."

Joel stepped aside as an elderly couple opened the bell-rigged door and walked to the register. He couldn't imagine the last time this place had needed a jingle to alert staff to new business.

At the far end of the bar, a tall man sporting a Stetson and a bolo tie put a newspaper and two dollars between an empty plate and a coffee cup. He grabbed his jacket and walked briskly toward the exit.

Joel looked at the newspaper and groaned. He had procrastinated long enough. He walked slowly to the unoccupied stool, braced himself for the inevitable, and picked up the front page. The headlines and old-fashioned layout fanned his fears before the date at the top confirmed them: Thursday, May 29, 1941.

He put down the paper, nodded to Frida as he worked his way down the counter, and excused himself through a throng that filled the lobby. One of the church ladies gawked at him, turned away, and quietly asked her friend about Candy in Chains.

Be glad I left Barenaked Ladies at home
.

On his way out, Joel stopped by gumball row, wondered how often the diner had filled the machines in fifty-nine years, and held the front door for a weary mother pushing an unusually large carriage. She smiled, said thanks, and plowed her way in.

Joel stood in the middle of the sidewalk and stared blankly at a grocery store across the street. It advertised bread for eight cents a loaf and milk for thirty-four cents a gallon. A pickup truck honked as it passed, snapping him out of his daze. He peered down the street in both directions and decided to head south, toward the downtown core. He entered his strange new world with angst, disbelief, and wonder.