Quicksilver (The Forensic Geology Series, Prequel) Read Online Free PDF Page B

used as a kid being dragged along by his father would not fit him now, as a grown man. I also took note that the floating-top lid of the Arcteryx was stained and one side water-bottle pocket had a small rip. Perhaps he’d rented it.
    His boots were Asolos, top of the line. Creased at the toe break, slightly worn around the edges of the vibram soles. Broken in.
    I wondered where he’d done his hiking.
    In another five minutes we topped the climb, which leveled onto the narrow ledge.
    Nobody was there waiting.
    It was a false ridge, because the bedrock climbed another couple hundred feet to the true ridge, sky-silhouetted above. A couple of yards westerly, beneath the slaty cliff, a rotten patch spilled talus onto our ledge and fanned out to the rim.
    We stood rooted.
    Looking. Listening. All of us winded. Catching our breath.
    Walter finally said, “I would like to sit.”
    “If it was Henry he’d have gone that way.” Shelburne pointed easterly, to the far end of the bedrock intrusion, where the ledge disappeared into the woods. “I’ll have a look.” He set off.
    Walter and I shucked our packs and sank to the rock. It was chilly. We retrieved our parkas. We grabbed our water bottles and drank. The water was sweet cold eastern Sierra water, bottles filled back at the lab. Cold water down my gullet. I was now doubly chilled. The rock beneath my butt was stone cold. Not enough sun to warm the phyllite. Even its golden sheen was dulled in this gray light. I shivered. I drew up my knees, hugging them.
    Walter got out the trail mix. I freed one hand, opened my palm, and he filled it. I nibbled like a squirrel.
    The breeze that had been coming and going now came stronger, more consistent.
    I sniffed for the odd odor but smelled nothing other than salty peanuts and sweet dried pineapple.
    And then Shelburne returned, shucked his pack, and sank to the rock beside me. He shook his head.
    I said, “So you think it was him? Or not?”
    “He’s gone now.”
    Shelburne hadn’t qualified that with an if , if it was Henry. I said, “Maybe we should get moving.”
    “We won’t catch him now. He’ll be hiking fast. No pack—he’s likely made camp somewhere. He’s got the edge. We’ll need to keep tracking him.”
    Walter nodded. “I’m content to rest here another moment.”
    I studied my partner. Face still slightly flushed, even in the growing chill. Hair mussed and, yeah, graying. He still wore his sunglasses. His eyebrows—gray flecked with brown like feldspar in granite—bushed above the rims of his shades. He caught my scrutiny and lifted his brows.
    I said, “Yeah, feels good to sit.” The rock was warming beneath my butt. Sit here much longer, though, and I’d start asking questions.
    I watched Shelburne retrieve his water bottle from the side pocket of his backpack. He chose the narrow-mouth bottle. The other bottle, in the torn pocket, was a wide-mouth, more suited for carrying extra water. At least, that’s the way we did it, although I carried two spare bottles in my pack pockets and the quick-grab drinking bottle clipped to my belt with a carabiner. Then again, I’m something of a gear-head.
    So was Shelburne.
    I watched him drink from his sleek silver bottle emblazoned with the word titanium ; major cool factor; no price tag attached but none needed; if you had to ask, you would not want to pay it.
    Shelburne was a gear-head with expensive tastes. Still, you had to know what you needed in the field before you laid out good money. And if you were going to lay out good money, you’d want to get plentiful use of your gear.
    I watched him replace his titanium bottle in the pocket of his Arcteryx pack. I said, “Been up here recently?”
    “Here? Not since I was a kid.”
    “But you still do some backpacking?”
    He saw me looking at his grown-up pack. “My job takes me afield now and then. I’ve had to site-scout a location or two in this general neighborhood. Investment