Free Cold Case Affair by Loreth Anne White Page A
Authors: Loreth Anne White
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And the reason she was now heading out to the mine troubled her.
Muirinn got out of the vehicle and walked slowly up to the gate. Heat pressed down on her.
A six-foot-high, rusting, chain-link fence ran the length of the property. A hardboard sign, paint peeling, clanked against a pole in the hot breeze, fading letters proclaiming the Tolkin Mine private property, warning trespassers they would be prosecuted.
The big strike had lasted over a year. Combined with the mass homicide twenty years ago, it had resulted in severe staffing and production problems for the Tolkin Mining Corporation. Development mining—the boring of new tunnels deeper into rock in order to reach fresh veins of ore—had to be scaled back, resulting in a shortage of quality ore. And new gold mines in the north had subsequently opened, producing a far greater yield. The resultant competition had killed the Safe Harbor mine, and Tolkin had finally shut its doors seven years after the bombing.
The property had sat abandoned ever since, crumbling with time and seasons.
For a moment Muirinn just stood there, snared by a surge of memories, the place coming to life with people, frantic, milling around like ants. She could hear sirens, see the acrid smoke boiling up out of D-shaft, feel the spring snow cold on her cheeks, her mother’s hand icy in hers. Chief Bill Moran was walking toward them…
Clouds began to gather in the sky, suddenly darkening the ground. The air grew hotter, closer. The strange thrum of a grouse reverberated against the stillness.
Muirinn shook herself, rubbing the chill of the memory from her arms.
She glanced up at the avalanche-scarred mountains that soared up on either side of the Tolkin Valley. Their plunging chutes looked dark and ominous, although they shouldn’t. They were choked with the vibrant green of deciduous summer growth that had burst from snow-scoured ground, and higher up on the peaks, avalanche lilies—a favorite food of grizzlies—had formed a verdant green carpet.
Muirinn stepped up to the gate.
The chain and lock had long ago been rusted and pried open by vandals. Unhooking what was left of the chain, Muirinn creaked open the massive gate, dragging it wide through the dirt so she could bring the truck in.
She drove through, shut the gate behind her, and traveled along the perimeter fence for about three miles until the Sodwana headframe loomed on a rise ahead, a grim, rusting, metal skeleton in the shape of an A , a small derelict building squatting at its base.
Just like the photo.
Muirinn stopped alongside the shed.
The windows were partially boarded up, a metal drum and old iron boxcar resting outside. Plastic flapped in the hot breeze. Her mouth felt dry.
This was a bad place, choked with the ghosts of old miners. She didn’t like to think of Gus here, alone. Or down the shaft.
Muirinn retrieved the rifle from the gun box, loaded it and released the safety. She couldn’t say why exactly. But she felt edgy, as if she were being watched by unseen eyes.
Wind gusted, stirring fine silt up into a soft dervish, and suddenly it was cold again, and the silt was blowing snow, and she could see Chief Bill Moran coming, looming, the grim news carried in his posture and stride…Disconcerted, Muirinn again shook away the haunting images.
This place had an eerie way of slamming present and past together, and Muirinn realized that that was exactly why Gus had come here. And why she was here now, too.
Approaching the old headframe building, the .22 clutched a little too tightly in her hand, her eyes tracked over the dry ground, trying to see where the old photos might have been taken, where some accomplice might have stood vigil on a cold morning twenty years ago as a killer trekked deep underground.
A sudden soft whoosh of breeze rustled through the alders, leaves clapping like little hands, an invisible audience watching, waiting, cheering. She glanced nervously back at the main gate. It
And the reason she was now heading out to the mine troubled her.
Muirinn got out of the vehicle and walked slowly up to the gate. Heat pressed down on her.
A six-foot-high, rusting, chain-link fence ran the length of the property. A hardboard sign, paint peeling, clanked against a pole in the hot breeze, fading letters proclaiming the Tolkin Mine private property, warning trespassers they would be prosecuted.
The big strike had lasted over a year. Combined with the mass homicide twenty years ago, it had resulted in severe staffing and production problems for the Tolkin Mining Corporation. Development mining—the boring of new tunnels deeper into rock in order to reach fresh veins of ore—had to be scaled back, resulting in a shortage of quality ore. And new gold mines in the north had subsequently opened, producing a far greater yield. The resultant competition had killed the Safe Harbor mine, and Tolkin had finally shut its doors seven years after the bombing.
The property had sat abandoned ever since, crumbling with time and seasons.
For a moment Muirinn just stood there, snared by a surge of memories, the place coming to life with people, frantic, milling around like ants. She could hear sirens, see the acrid smoke boiling up out of D-shaft, feel the spring snow cold on her cheeks, her mother’s hand icy in hers. Chief Bill Moran was walking toward them…
Clouds began to gather in the sky, suddenly darkening the ground. The air grew hotter, closer. The strange thrum of a grouse reverberated against the stillness.
Muirinn shook herself, rubbing the chill of the memory from her arms.
She glanced up at the avalanche-scarred mountains that soared up on either side of the Tolkin Valley. Their plunging chutes looked dark and ominous, although they shouldn’t. They were choked with the vibrant green of deciduous summer growth that had burst from snow-scoured ground, and higher up on the peaks, avalanche lilies—a favorite food of grizzlies—had formed a verdant green carpet.
Muirinn stepped up to the gate.
The chain and lock had long ago been rusted and pried open by vandals. Unhooking what was left of the chain, Muirinn creaked open the massive gate, dragging it wide through the dirt so she could bring the truck in.
She drove through, shut the gate behind her, and traveled along the perimeter fence for about three miles until the Sodwana headframe loomed on a rise ahead, a grim, rusting, metal skeleton in the shape of an A , a small derelict building squatting at its base.
Just like the photo.
Muirinn stopped alongside the shed.
The windows were partially boarded up, a metal drum and old iron boxcar resting outside. Plastic flapped in the hot breeze. Her mouth felt dry.
This was a bad place, choked with the ghosts of old miners. She didn’t like to think of Gus here, alone. Or down the shaft.
Muirinn retrieved the rifle from the gun box, loaded it and released the safety. She couldn’t say why exactly. But she felt edgy, as if she were being watched by unseen eyes.
Wind gusted, stirring fine silt up into a soft dervish, and suddenly it was cold again, and the silt was blowing snow, and she could see Chief Bill Moran coming, looming, the grim news carried in his posture and stride…Disconcerted, Muirinn again shook away the haunting images.
This place had an eerie way of slamming present and past together, and Muirinn realized that that was exactly why Gus had come here. And why she was here now, too.
Approaching the old headframe building, the .22 clutched a little too tightly in her hand, her eyes tracked over the dry ground, trying to see where the old photos might have been taken, where some accomplice might have stood vigil on a cold morning twenty years ago as a killer trekked deep underground.
A sudden soft whoosh of breeze rustled through the alders, leaves clapping like little hands, an invisible audience watching, waiting, cheering. She glanced nervously back at the main gate. It