"Yeah. Though it's not a city. Never was. Barely even a town anymore. Used to be the center of the mining district, back whencopper was king. Had maybe two thousand people at its peak. Now it's got maybe fifty, and most of them are just squatting in old buildings."
"Where is it?"
"About twenty miles northwest of here. Up in the Porkies.”
“The Porkies?” Joe asked.
“That’s what we call the Porcupine Mountains.”
“And our wives,” one of the other old guys said. A couple of the men laughed.
Any specific camps or operations you remember? Names, locations?"
The old man scratched his jaw. "Hell, most of them didn't have names, just numbers. Camp Seven, Camp Twelve, like that. But there were a few private operations too. Smaller outfits run by families or partnerships."
Joe took a casual sip of his beer. "Ever hear the name Kinsman?"
The old man's eyes stared blankly into his glass. "Kinsman," he said slowly. "Maybe. Sounds familiar. But I'm eighty years old and half drunk, so don't count on it."
"Could be a family name," Joe said. "Or a company."
"Could be." The old man shook his head. "Memory's not what it used to be. I knew a lot of people back then. A lot of names. They all blur together now."
Joe didn't push. "Well, thanks for the information. Copper City sounds like a good place to start."
"If you're going up there, be careful," the old man said. "Roads are bad. And there's not much up there anymore. Just ghosts."
"I'll be careful."
The old man finished his beer and stood up slowly, joints creaking. "Good luck with your book."
"Thanks."
Joe finished his own beer, left a ten on the bar, and walked out.
The snow was still falling. The street was empty. His truck was covered in a thin layer of white.
He got in, started the engine, and pulled out the map. Found Copper City marked in small letters near the edge of the Porcupine Mountains. The road leading to it was barely visible on the map—a thin line winding through terrain marked with contour lines indicating steep hills.
Joe memorized the route, then folded the map and set it on the passenger seat.
He put the truck in gear and drove north out of Ashford, toward the mountains, toward Copper City, toward whatever was waiting there in the darkness.
His taillights disappeared into the snow.
Inside Pike's Bar, the bartender watched through the window until the truck was gone. Then he walked over to the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar.
He picked up the receiver and dialed a number from memory.
It rang three times before someone answered.
"A guy just left," the bartender said quietly. "Asked about the Kinsman name."
He listened again.
“Big guy. Tall. Maybe six-six or so.”
"Heading toward Copper City. Left maybe two minutes ago."
