The Mine Read Online Free
Author: John A. Heldt
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
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
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