Dead Silver

by Max Florschutz

  “Decroux,” he said, tilting his head back and squinting at me as the sun hit his eyes. “I’m only going to say this once, clear? This is your only warning. Get out of my county. We don’t want you here, and if I see you again, I’m going to assume you’re covering your friend’s ass, and I’ll have you arrested, too. Are we clear?”

  “Is that all?” Something inside of me finally reached its boiling point. “First you tell me not to leave, now you’re telling me to get out of town or you’ll arrest me? Without a warrant?”

  “Oh, I’ll get a warrant,” he said, stepping forward, his hand now resting firmly on the butt of his revolver. “Doesn’t matter what for. Interfering with an active investigation, maybe? ”

  “If you’ve got a problem with me—” I began, but Hanks cut me off with a glare, taking another step forward.

  “A problem? My problem is that you’re bothering the residents of my county. It’s my responsibility to look after their well-being and protection. And that means keeping trouble-making freaks like you out.”

  “Well, if that’s your job description, maybe you should be looking into these chupacabra attacks,” I said, straining so hard to keep my voice calm that it came out flat. “Because that’s what Rocke was doing. That’s what I’m doing. So if you’re convinced we’re both involved in something shady, maybe you should start looking at those.”

  “Those ‘attacks’ are just a scam,” Hanks growled, his voice low. “A feeble cover for whatever it is you’re really up to. Make no mistake, I will find out what you and your friend are really after, and then I will bury you so far in the morass, you’ll never show up in this town again.” He spun away from me and wrenched the door of his squad car open, slamming it into the side of my Rover with a loud bang.

  I shook my head as Hanks pulled away, a definite squeal sounding from his tires. How does someone like that get elected sheriff? I asked myself as I examined the small dent in the back door of my Rover. This town’s got to have a few Unusuals in it, even if they aren’t registered. He acts like Rocke and I are the only two he’s ever seen. I brushed my hand across the dent in my car, the metal hot to the touch, and then pulled the driver’s door open and climbed in, shaking my head. Well, I thought, there’s not much I can do but wait for him to push things too far.

  Until then, and until Rocke called me, the least I could do was make the most of my time. And the best way to do that, I decided, was to learn more about the history of the town. And for that, I’d need to visit the museum.

  * * *

  It didn’t take me long to find my way to the museum, even without pulling out my map to guide me. The old mining buildings that had been retrofitted to serve as the museum’s housing were easily visibly over the rooftops of the neighboring buildings, making for a simple navigation aid as I made my way around the streets of Silver Dreams. Then, as I got closer, I saw police lights.

  The familiar flashing red-and-blue popped into view as I rounded the corner, and I had to shake my head at my luck. The way things had been going with the law, I was going to end up eating lunch at a place under FBI surveillance.

  Still, I guess that wouldn’t be the worst way to eat lunch, I told myself as I pulled alongside the curb a few car-lengths away from the black-and-white. After all, I could be eating it with the company of Sheriff Hanks.

  As I shut off the Rover, the door to the museum opened and out came a police officer. I paused for a second, gauging his appearance, but I didn’t recognize him as either of the officers I’d met with last. He made his way down the steps at a quick pace, skipping the last few with a small hop and coming to a halt on the sidewalk next to the squad car. The window was open, and he bent out of sight for a moment, the flashing blue-and-red lights vanishing as he flipped a switch inside.

  Another officer came out of the museum as I stepped out of the Rover—making certain that I had my staff with me this time. Although both of the officers seemed fairly relaxed, I wasn’t taking any chances. Behind the second officer was an older man in a grey, tweed suit that looked more like it belonged on display at the museum than it did on his slightly pudgy frame. Then again, maybe that was the intent.

  “But you’re absolutely sure that this is nothing more than teenage hooligans?” the older man said as he followed the officer down the steps.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews,” she replied, coming to a stop on the sidewalk and turning partway towards him. “Unless something was taken or damaged past what you showed us, there isn’t more we can do than report it as breaking and entering, which probably means teenagers.”

  “But Officer Lopez, if I could just—”

  “Look, Charlie,” she said, spreading her hands wide, a small notepad clutched between the fingers of her right hand. “Unless something was stolen or destroyed, we’ve got nothing to go on. All you showed us was that someone had broken in.”

  “And broken the entrance to the old mineshaft!” Charlie said, raising one hand and pointing back through the still-open door of the museum.

  “It’s just a bunch of boards, Charlie,” she said, shaking her head as she let her hands drop. I slowed to a stop as I drew closer, Lopez’s partner glancing at me before turning his attention back to the pair. “And they aren’t even historic. They’re just wooden planks. If you ask me—”

  “But—”

  “If you ask me, Charlie,” Lopez said, shaking her head as her partner looked on with a sort of sad smile, the kind you might reserve for someone who just isn’t getting something and doesn’t even understand that. “It was probably just a couple of drunk teens looking for something to do. They probably got blasted and dared each other to sneak into the first mine shaft, all right?”

  “But …” the old man protested, but even I could see his resolve weakening.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, if you can find something that’s been stolen or damaged, we can look into it further. But for now, it’s just a simple break-in. If you really want to do something about it, then I’d advise picking up a few cameras. See if you can catch them in the act.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped as she wished him a good day and climbed into her squad car. A moment later, it was off down the street, leaving the slightly overweight old man behind, wisps of grey hair bobbing in the slight breeze. It was almost a surprise when he spun around and addressed me.

  “May I help you?” he asked, his small eyes looking me up and down first with suspicion, then with curiosity. I could see his gaze pausing on my staff. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to bring it along.

  “Sorry,” I said, holding my hand up by way of greeting. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just wanted to see the museum.” My statement was met with an even more skeptical look than I’d already earned, and he ran his eyes ran over me again.

  “Oh you are, are you?” he asked, his tone terse. “Are you visiting Silver Dreams, then?”

  “Yes,” I replied, fighting the urge to cock an eyebrow at his mood. He had apparently just suffered a break-in. Maybe it was just a bad time to catch him. “I wanted to learn a little bit more about the area.”

  “Really?” he asked, his question almost-but-not-quite concealing the hint of interest in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Is there a fee or—”

  “Well, of course!” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “It’s six dollars for a child, nine dollars for an adult. If you’ll just follow me right this way …” He waved one hand at the front door and started up the steps. “You’re actually the first person to come by today. No surprise really, since we aren’t usually open until ten.”

  “Well,” I said as I followed him up the steps, my boots making dry thumps on the concrete. “If you’d rather I came back later—”

  “Oh no, no, not at all,” he said, giving me a smile that stretched the skin of his face tight across his head. “It’s not like the schedule really matters that much. Besides, the door is op
en anyway.” He paused by the front door and flipped the small black and orange sign around. “So,” he said as he stepped inside, “let me just ring you up over here, and then we can get started on the tour.

  I stepped into the museum lobby and came to a stop, eyes widening as I took in the sheer amount of stuff all around me. While the lobby floor was relatively clear, it’s brown, wooden planks offering plenty of space to wander around, there probably wasn’t a bare inch of the walls that wasn’t covered in something. Black and white pictures of all sizes hung everywhere, arranged in a haphazard manner that I couldn’t hope to identify from a distance and probably wouldn’t be able to even up close. Shelves poked out here and there, holding what looked like old mining equipment: Pickaxes, shovels, and other tools I couldn’t identify. But for all the sheer volume of everything present, the room didn’t feel cluttered. A bit color-blind maybe, but not cluttered.

  “It’s quite the collection, isn’t it?” I turned my attention back toward the museum curator, already standing behind a plain wooden counter. “None of it is worth putting in the collection itself, at least not yet. Most of it is just little bits of culture or history that have been donated over the years by various members of the community that don’t really fit in with the rest of the exhibits. Like this one, for instance,” he said, stepping over to the wall and tapping a blurry black-and-white photo with his index finger. “Douglas Santiago gave me that picture when he was a boy. Snapped it while he was out camping. Claimed it was proof that the Wraith was real. Said it was this blur right here.”

  I stepped up behind him and squinted at the picture, trying to pick out any details. It was vaguely recognizable as a scene from somewhere in the valley. Or maybe a neighboring one, it was a little hard to tell. Near Charlie’s finger in the center of the photograph was a blurry figure that looked vaguely humanoid. Then again, it also could have been a cactus; the blur was pretty severe.

  “Or this,” he said, turning and walking towards another section of the wall. “A tourist gave me this once.” His finger came just short of tapping a black and white picture of a trash pile. Again, the picture was somewhat blurry, the focus off. “Said his father had come through here at one point, and that this was a picture of the town dump.” He let out a chuckle as he shook his head. “Can you imagine? He left it here. As if we had a display on the town dump!”

  Well, now you do, I thought, but I kept the comment to myself as he turned back towards the counter.

  “So, one adult?”

  “Uh, yes, please,” I said, stealing another glance at the picture of the “Wraith” before turning back towards the counter. It did look a little bit like a cactus. “I couldn’t help but overhear out there. You had a break-in last night?” My wallet slid smoothly from my back pocket, and I flipped it open, counting out spare change. It wouldn’t be long before I had to hit an ATM again.

  “Yes, we did,” he said with a scoff as he accepted a five and four ones from me. “The officers don’t want to investigate because nothing was taken. I know better. If they broke in once, they’ll do it again. Damn hooligans—pardon my language.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, shrugging as he handed me my ticket. “So what did they do?”

  “Aside from destroying a perfectly good lock on a side door and breaking apart the boards over the mineshaft that started this whole city? Nothing.” His face took on a slightly sour expression. “And the police wouldn’t even call it vandalism. Just breaking and entering! It’s the mineshaft that started the whole town. Even touching it should be vandalism.” He shook his head and let out an exasperated groan. “In any case, if you’d like the tour, it starts over here,” he said, waving his hand at an open entryway that seemed to lead further into the building. “My name is Charlie Andrews, by the way, and I’ll be your tour guide. You can call me Charlie.”

  “Hawke Decroux,” I said, offering him my hand. He took it and gave it an energetic squeeze, his small eyes scrutinizing me once more. “Call me Hawke.”

  “Decroux, hmm?” he asked, dropping my hand and running a finger across his chin. “That would be French, wouldn’t it?”

  I nodded. “French-Canadian, in my case,” I said, following him towards the doorway.

  “I see,” Charlie said, nodding. “Are you just passing through town?”

  “Ah, no,” I said, deciding to leave out the details of my visit. “I’m just vacationing for a few days, maybe a week or two.” Charlie glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, as if questioning my choice of vacation spots, but he didn’t say anything. “One of the managers at my motel said if I wanted to learn more about local history, the museum would be my best bet. Especially if I wanted to learn about the Wraith.”

  “Ah. Well, if your interest lies solely in the mythical Wraith, then I’m afraid that the museum won’t have too much to offer you,” Charlie said, shaking his head slightly. “We have a small exhibit on it, but I’m afraid that the Wraith rests very much in the realm of legend.”

  “That’s fine,” I said as I passed through the doorway after him, stepping into a, smaller room with various pictures hanging behind glass on the wall. “I’m curious about the other stuff, too. That was just something she mentioned.”

  “Well, it’s a part of the community, that’s for certain,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But for now, we’ll start at the beginning. Silver Dreams was founded in the spring of 1876,” he said, his voice slipping into dry, practiced precision as he gestured towards weathered black and white photographs of several people signing papers and documentation.

  “At the time, New Mexico had yet to become a state. Michael Henderson, a former lieutenant of the Confederate Army, came across the area while traveling west in search of fame and fortune. Upon spending a few days in the valley, he—an amateur geologist like his father—determined that there was a large deposit of silver nearby. The land was considered the territory of a small tribe of Native Americans that lived nearby, and in a surprising move, Henderson purchased the territory from them …”

  Charlie’s voice faded into the woodwork of the ancient structure as I followed him through the museum. The tour was actually fairly compelling, the kind of thing I would have done anyway had I been spending my vacation the way I wanted. The tour wound through the old mining complex, now modernized and refurbished, to be sure, but still the same style and design. Charlie pointed out various purposes of the original structure as we made our way along, such as one segment being the bunkhouse that many of the miners had lived in.

  There were other surprises along the way, too, as we moved through the years. Whole storefronts that had been reassembled inside the museum, their aged wooden paneling sun-worn and bleached. Signs advertising cheap housing or haircuts, even a whole covered wagon that Charlie informed me he had painstakingly restored himself. I had to admire the love and effort he put into running the museum.

  Overall, the historical details weren’t too different from the short summary Rocke had given me when he’d first told me about the place. Silver Dreams had started out as a boom town during the expansion age of New Mexico’s history, but it had quickly burned out once the large vein of silver Henderson had been looking for hadn’t surfaced. Over the last hundred-odd years, the town had seen its share of ups and downs, usually as a result of whatever the mine’s current yield was. There was silver out there; that much was true. But as Charlie pointed out with some sympathy, it was just barely enough to keep things going. There wasn’t even enough silver for another company to be interested in buying Henderson Mining, which the father of the current owner had apparently tried.

  As I followed Charlie through the depths of the museum, we eventually came to the center of—as he put it—the entire town: The first mine shaft. We stepped through an open doorway, and suddenly I was walking on loose gravel, my boots sending up faint scratches and scrapes of rock with each step.

  The room the shaft sat in was the most “natural” room of the entire museum so far.
It was musty, almost dank, and a chilly breeze wafted up from the darkened hole in front of us. The wood structure—I hesitated to call it a shack, because it was both too large and too well-maintained for that name—around us stretched up several stories, with large, wooden beams covered in cobwebs crisscrossing above our heads like a giant’s bones. Faint cracks of sunlight filtered in between the boards, as if the building itself were deliberately designed to show a bit of age.

  The mineshaft itself looked almost ominous, though that might have been the low lighting conditions. A single, dim bulb hung somewhere behind the mineshaft itself, its faint light hardly enough to drive away the shadows around the opening in the earth. The shaft had been dug into a small hill at an angle, classic wooden posts entrenched into the earth along its edges to shore up the entrance. A pair of rusted metal rails veered steeply downward into the dark, vanishing a few feet from the opening.

  More eye-catching, however, were the smashed wooden planks hanging from the sides of the shaft and scattered across the dirt in front of it. I gazed down at the broken bits of wood, eyeing the clean breaks.

  “This is what you showed those officers, huh?” I asked, my question shaking Charlie from his speech about the materials used in the first mineshaft and bringing him to a somewhat clumsy halt.

  “I … er … Sorry, what?” he asked, blinking his beady eyes at me in confusion.

  “The vandalism,” I said, pointing down at the broken boards. “This is what you were talking about, right?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, nodding and then shaking his head. “Those hooligans! If I ever get my hands on them—”

  I stepped towards the mineshaft, crouching just shy of where the metal rails had been cut off and bent into the ground. I could make out faint scuff marks in the sand between bits of broken wood, scuff marks that led down into the shaft.