Bones on Ice: A Novella (6 page)

As I stepped through the door, my eye fell on a magazine I’d been looking at for research lying open on my desk. On an ad for Millet Everest Summit GTX mountaineering boots that I’d been checking out. My gaze drifted to a local insert on the facing page.

Try it!
a tiny voice urged from some corner of my mind.

No way.

Fieldwork
.

Yeah. Right.

Might help your analysis
.

Valid point.

Scared?

What the hell. I’m the Queen of Ice and Snow. I had time to kill and yoga pants in my trunk. I tore out the flyer and headed for my car.

Minutes later, at my destination, I wasn’t so sure. Was even less sure as I powered through double glass doors into an overly bright lobby with way too many posters.

“Hello!” a perky broomstick with a bouncy bob and sun-leathered skin greeted me from behind a reception desk. The patchouli tsunamied strong as I crossed to her. “Welcome to Inner Peaks Climbing Center!”

More and more, I was regretting my rash impulse.

“Are you here to climb?” Overly cheery.

No. I’m here to learn neurosurgery
. I nodded.

“First-timer?” Wide, sincere eyes.

“Yes.”

“Great! Over eighteen?”

“Yes.” Last time I was eighteen “Stayin’ Alive” was a new release. I didn’t add that.

“Our first-timers package includes a day pass, harness, shoes, and gri-gri lesson.”

“Gri-gri?”

“An assisted braking belay device.”

“I’ll take the package.”

“Great! You’ll need a qualified belayer—that’s the person handling the ropes—to
help you climb. Got a friend?”

“Not today.”

Earnest frown. “I’m not sure….”

“I’ve got this, Amy.” The voice came from behind me. Familiar. I turned.

Damon James, chest stretching a tee to its tensile limits, the Inner Peaks logo centered on front. Sleeves razored off at the shoulders.

“Dr. Brennan, I presume.” Boyish laugh. Like he’d practiced in the mirror.

“Moonlighting?” I stepped back. For some reason, the guy made me want to run for the showers.

A shrug. “My former business pipeline’s a little frozen right now.”

My breath caught. Was the asshole referring to Brighton Hallis?

James drew an arm across his waist and tipped his head. “So you get Prince Charming.”

“Great!” Chirped from Amy. “Please sign the waiver, we’ll swipe a credit card, and away you go!”

“Great.” James raised his eyebrows at me.

“Great.” I raised my eyebrows at James.

After signing and paying, I trailed my belayer, whatever the hell that was, into the inner sanctum. In the gear room, James sorted through brightly colored straps and ropes, selecting and handing me some that, to my eye, were indistinguishable from others.

“How’s it hanging with Brighton?” he asked, casual as hell, crouching by a bin overflowing with metal clasps.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing case.”

“Fair enough.” He stood, holding the climbing equivalent of bowling shoes. “I watch TV. I’m hip to how cops roll.”

I frowned. James couldn’t know Hallis had been murdered. Why mention cops?

“All set.” Quick jerk of the head. “This way.”

The main climbing gym looked like the love child of Mars and Tim Burton. Fake rock escarpments curved upward, their ochre walls speckled with modular grips resembling brightly colored wads of leviathan chewing gum. All around, people in ropes and helmets dangled in various stages of ascent and descent.

James led the way to a fairly straightforward “cliff.” “We’ll start simple.”

Have I mentioned that I dislike unprotected heights? My heart was already inching up my throat.

I slipped into the climbing shoes, then James flopped me about like a rag doll, affixing harness, ropes, carabiners, gri-gri, and helmet. When finished, he assessed his
handiwork, again shot the practiced grin. The contrived boyish-charm thing was wearing thin fast.

“How’s your upper-body strength?” Still grinning.

“Decent.”

“Let’s find out.” James began issuing instructions, his style methodical and concise. “Climbing’s as much about your hands as your feet.”

I listened. Whatever his personality, the guy knew his stuff.

A final check of my gear, then he pointed out the route.

I wiped sweaty palms on my pants then stepped to the wall. Curtain time.

“On belay?” I called, following the script James had provided.

“Belay on,” James replied.

“Climbing,” I said.

“Climb on.”

A moment passed. Another. I hadn’t moved.

“Climb on,” James repeated, tone not mocking, but close. Deep breath, then I reached to find purchase and hauled myself up.

My form wasn’t pretty, but slowly I worked my way up the rock face, pits damp, heart hammering, totally oblivious to the passage of time. To anything outside the rhythm of grasp, pull, step.

I was close to the top when a high shriek echoed somewhere below me. A cacophony of sound followed. My adrenaline-stoked fingers flinched, my grip faltered. I fell.

I felt air whoosh past my ears. Was bracing for impact when the rope tautened, snapping me around wildly. My body slammed the wall. I scrabbled for a handhold, a toehold. Clung, gasping, not looking down.

“Dr. Brennan.” Pause. “Dr. Brennan.” Calm. “Please look at me.”

I opened my eyes. Saw serpentine green ones. Level. I risked a glance toward the ground. Saw that I was two feet above it. Trembling, I released my grip, and eased onto terra firma.

“I’m sorry.” James raised his hands, apologetic. “I got distracted by the kids.” He indicated a mushrooming gaggle of children flowing in from outside. “You okay?”

I nodded, not trusting my ability to speak. The same thing had distracted me. But still.

“I haven’t lost a climber yet.” Lame attempt to lighten the mood.

“I’m fine.” My voice was squeaky, my knees rubber.

“Ready for another try?”

“I’m good.” Wiping a shaky hand over my face.

“You know what they say about getting back on the horse.”

“I’ve got to go.” Glance at my watch. Five-thirty. I’d never make it to Blythe Hallis by six.

“You definitely got the hang of it fast. Must have a primo instructor.” James was back to cocky and smiling. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Crazy, but somehow the invite felt threatening. Funny how raging adrenaline distorts one’s perception. “Thanks for the primer.”

“I’m really sorry,” James apologized again.

“It’s no big deal,” I assured him.

“Duty calls?” The reptilian green eyes, measuring. Prying?

“More like a hungry cat. I’m edging into tuna-or-pay time.”

James stepped close, morphing from stillness to motion so quickly I had to steel myself not to recoil. Another practiced grin as he unclipped my harness and helped me free. Then we moved toward the lobby.

“It’s good to push yourself,” James said as we went through the door, his body so close to mine I could smell his sweat and the onions he’d had with his lunch. “It’s not good to push others.”

What the hell?

“Bright’s death hurt a lot of people.” Pausing in the narrow hallway, one hand on the lobby door. “So did her life. Dredging up all that baggage will just cause trouble.”

“What are you saying?”

He thought a moment. Or appeared to. When he answered his voice sounded different, deeper. “It may have been better if she’d stayed where she was. Nothing good will come of bringing Brighton down off that mountain.”

With an aggressive shove James pushed through the door. In the lobby he was all sunshine again. “Y’all come back and see us now, hear?”

“Don’t keep the light on for me.”

Hurrying out, I felt the small hairs rise on my neck. Cooling sweat? Or the pressure of steady eyes watching my back?

In my dream, I was belly-sliding down a sheer precipice, fingers clawing but catching nothing but air. Below, a hollow-eyed Brighton Hallis was positioning herself to catch me, arms frozen to her sides. Above, two pairs of eyes were peering over the cliff’s edge, one green and one gray, both cold as a grave. A song floated from somewhere far off, blurry and indistinct.

As I edged into consciousness, the lyrics crystalized into Neil Young singing “Harvest Moon.” From my nightstand. A squint at my iPhone yielded two bits of information. It was damn early. Slidell didn’t care.

“What’s up, Doc?”

“Apparently I am.”

“The freeloader’s back from Russia. I’m meeting him for a chat. Any interest?”

“Give me fifteen.” I disconnected and rolled out of bed, shoulders suggesting that the previous night’s hot bath had been insufficient to placate overworked muscle groups. I popped two Advil and hurried to get ready.

Twenty minutes later, I climbed into what normally constituted a rolling biohazard zone. To my shock, Slidell’s Taurus was cleaner than I’d ever seen it. No trash. No fast food reinventing itself as mold. No reeking footwear.

“Wow. Spiffy floor mats. Someone die in here?”

“I also got a new eject button, if you have issues.”

I bit back a retort. Watched a pine tree air freshener do a trapeze act on the crossbar of the rearview mirror. The cloying spruce odor made my nose itch. But it beat the usual stench packing Slidell’s car.

“Did you reach out to Steele and Reynolds?” I asked.

“Boris and Natasha? Annoying as boils but harmless, especially him. Don’t see either as the doer.”

“James says Steele is a nasty piece of work. Timid on the outside, hard as nails at the core.”

“Motive?”

“She wanted Reynolds. And she wanted her shot at stardom.”

Slidell waggled his head, weighing the notion. “I could buy that the little mope could be a sleeper. But it don’t matter. They’re alibied up the wazoo.” Slidell made a left, an impatient gesture toward a pedestrian in the crosswalk. “All three claim they were together. Say they left the summit way before Hallis arrived.”

I described my encounter with Damon James and the wall. Left out the embarrassing tumble. My hallucinations of menace. “Maybe check James’s finances.”

“Gee, I never would have thought of that.”

Nope
.

“I’m seeing him later. And I can assure you, the guy ain’t thrilled. Want to come?” Slidell’s idea of a peace offering?

I thought of the malignant green eyes. “Thanks. I’ll pass. Did you get the DNA samples?”

“Already delivered.” Slidell made another turn. We were now in a burgeoning hipster area called Third Ward. “And, while some of us were logging beauty sleep, I also called Catawhatsis.”

“To the literate, it’s Kathmandu. Capital of Nepal.”

“Right. I think they use tin cans and string for communication over there. Forty-eleven numbers and hours bouncing around, I finally connected to a constable in Lukla.”

“You actually phoned?”

“I like to hear a guy’s voice.”

Slidell’s skill set does not include the use of computers. He typically leans on subordinates to run prints or enter info into databases. I let it pass. “Lukla is the nearest real town to base camp. It’s big enough to have an airport.”

“It also has a clown named Raj with jurisdiction over Everest. Must be lonely. I thought I’d have a birthday before he’d let me off the phone.”

“Comparing notes on modern crime?” I could imagine the conversation, felt sympathy for Raj.

“Aside from what they charge climbers?” Sarcastic snort. “But, yeah. The guy wouldn’t shut up. Sounded mostly like Wild West stuff–prostitution, drugs, petty theft, drunken brawls. Oh, and news flash: A lot of oxygen tanks walk off on their own.”

“But no murder?”

“If you don’t count abandoning the lame and disabled to freeze to death.”

I counted it. Though I’d never been there, I couldn’t imagine walking past a dying human being.

“So what did you learn?” Other than the deficiencies of Himalayan telecom.

“I wanted the story straight from the Sherpas who were with Hallis at the end. Not gonna happen. One died of HACE the following year. The other bought it in the avalanche of 2014.”

“Tough life up there.”

“And, it would seem, short.”

“So that leaves only the climbers.”

“And they’re sticking with their stories.” Slidell turned into a lot fronting a silver dining car that looked like it had chugged straight out of the 1950s. A neon sign proclaimed Mattie’s Diner. “Let’s see what
Eee-
lon has to say.”

The restaurant’s retro interior matched its vintage exterior. Stools lined a long counter on one side; red vinyl booths with miniature jukeboxes filled the wall opposite.

The sole patron was a man sitting alone in a booth. He was small, with scruffy dark curls and black-framed glasses that looked about the same era as the place he’d chosen for breakfast. On seeing us, he raised a hand. We crossed to him.

“Thanks for coming to ‘my office.’ ” Gass stood to greet us. Up close I could see that his face was dark with stubble. Not the “groomed to look ungroomed” style so fashionable of late. The “I haven’t bothered with a razor in some time” style.

Slidell and I shook hands with Gass. I slid into the booth and scanned a menu that offered, among other temptations, the Hunka Hunka Burning Toast and the Ya Might Be a Redneck Breakfast Plate. Just what I needed. More artery-clogging Southern fare.

A waitress in a black Eat At Mattie’s tee, leather shorts, and Doc Martens plunked three mugs of coffee onto the Formica. Waited expectantly. I wondered what she’d do if I asked for tea.

“Hey, Carla,” Gass greeted her.

“Usual?” Carla shifted her weight. A fairly impressive maneuver. Gass nodded.

Carla turned heavily mascaraed eyes on me.

“Nothing, thanks.”

Slidell also stuck with coffee. Added Sweet’n Low. When Carla retreated, he went in hot.

“Someone took Brighton Hallis off the board on Everest. You know who?”

All color drained from below the dark stubble. “What? You mean, like, killed her?”

Slidell said nothing. Gass looked to me. Back to Slidell.

“You’re joking, right?”

“You think it’s funny?”

“No. Of course not.” Bobbing Adam’s apple. Eyes jittery behind the thick lenses. “Why? I mean, how?”

“Chop to the neck. You know anything about that?”

Gass gulped his coffee. Winced, as though scalded. “I thought she died of hypothermia.” Faintly.

“Apparently not.”

“But who would do that? She was by herself.”

“Was she?”

Gass shook his head. “I don’t know. I never made it above Kangshung Face. I was afraid of exhaustion and turned around.” Fingers to his lips, testing for a blister. “Most climbing deaths come from human error. Fatigue, ascending too slowly, ignoring the signs of altitude sickness, refusing to turn around. I freaked, I guess. Wasn’t going to let that happen to me.”

“Easy to turn around on someone else’s tab.” Slidell was hitting hard.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Little Miss Trust Fund footed your bill.”

“I didn’t ask her to do that.” Voice rising. “She insisted. Said she owed me for getting her through college.”

“How much?”

Gass looked up, as though receipts might be affixed to the ceiling. Back to Slidell. “An Everest pass runs $25,000 per, but we got a group rate. $70,000 for seven–five hikers, two Sherpas. A fully guided expedition runs upwards of $65,000 per person. A trip like ours, with support but no guides, tops out around $30,000.”

“So you owed Hallis thirty K?” Slidell was verifying what James had said.

“A little more. Everything costs, man. Your gear, your flight, your yak. Oxygen is five hundred dollars a bottle and you need six to summit. Each group chips in for base camp. Brighton was a champ at fundraising but everyone had to pony up.”

“Except you.”

“I could’ve paid!” Shooting forward in his seat. “I secured sponsorship before we left. When she changed her mind at the last minute and switched from a guided to an assisted trip, everyone thought it was because of me. But it wasn’t. The sponsorship would’ve paid. Going the cheap route was Brighton’s call.”

“What kind of sponsorship?” I was curious, suspected competition was stiff. Gass didn’t strike me as a mountaineering poster child.

“The Sure Foot Society. They’ve been incredibly supportive of my Yeti research.”

Slidell’s mug paused in midair. “Your what?”

“The abominable snowman. Bigfoot,” I translated.

“I prefer Sasquatch.” Prim. “Or Yeti. The creature is indigenous to the Himalayas of Nepal and Tibet. For me, the trip was less about scaling Everest, more about gathering proof.”

“Proof.”

“Of the creature’s existence. I’m a cryptozoologist.” Gass referred to a pseudoscience centered on the search for animals whose reality is questionable: Bigfoot, Loch Ness,
Chupacabra. “I specialize in megafauna cryptids.”

“And you thought you’d run into Bigf— Sasquatch on Everest?” Was the guy for real?

“A sighting would have been incredible, but I was mostly compiling evidence. Interviewing locals, examining fur samples, scat, possibly finding a snowprint. Most print discoveries occur between six and seven thousand meters. So you can see why summiting wasn’t my priority.”

“Naturally,” I said. Slidell was taking in our exchange, mouth hanging open.

“Many have found physical evidence over the years. In 1960, Sir Edmund Hillary retrieved what he claimed was a scalp. Reinhold Meissner diaried that he killed a Yeti in 1986. A Japanese trekking guide reported a sighting as recently as 2003. They’re out there.” Vehement. “You can believe it. They are out there.”

As are you, I thought. Way, way out there.

Slidell rolled his eyes but, to my surprise, remained relatively reserved. “So where’s this sponsorship money now?”

“I used it to pay for my trip to Russia. Yeti sightings are emerging from a remote region of the southwestern Adygea Republic. Video and plaster casts of footprints. Amazing stuff. I had to investigate.”

“Brighton disappears, so does your debt.” Slidell leaned back, pooched out his lips, and folded his arms. “Maybe worth greasing a few climbers’ palms for the sake of an alibi.”

“What?” Aghast. “No! I told you. I tried to pay Bright back before we left the U.S. She refused.”

“Got proof?”

Carla returned and placed eggs, bacon, and grits in front of Gass. Filled our mugs. Headed toward the kitchen.

“There’s an email.” Gass stared at his food as though he had no idea what to do with it. “Honestly, I wish she’d taken the money. Bright wasn’t as liquid as people thought. Her trust was locked up tight. I don’t know how she managed her champagne and caviar lifestyle off the small distribution she got each year.”

“Wasn’t she pulling a salary from her nonprofit?” I asked.

Gass gave a short cough of a laugh. “Bright Ascents? What a joke. Bright needed me to carry her through sophomore econ for a very good reason. Bright Ascents sounded sexy, funding medical care for Sherpas and cleaning up the mountain. But the operation was a disaster. A shell game.”

“It pulled in over a million dollars its first year,” I said.

“Maybe in promises. But the cupboard was bare. Damon was a saint.”

“James wasn’t getting paid, either?”

“Only in handshakes.”

“What about
The Heights
?” Slidell jumped in. “TV can be a cash cow.”

“You bet your sweet ass!” Behind the stubble, red flamed his cheeks. “Sorry. Language. I’m in the final eight. The producers are really interested in my Yeti angle.”

Figured. Katy once forced me to watch an episode of
Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
. Crazy makes for good reality TV.

“Word on the street says Hallis had the gig wrapped up.” Slidell.

“Maybe according to her.” Diffident sniff.

“Maybe that’s why someone wanted her gone. Maybe you.”

Gass tipped his head, slashing a dotted line of overheads across his lenses. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, man. I wasn’t being considered because of my climbing skills. I was in the running for my Yeti slant. I’m the guy who never made it near Hillary Step. And I’ve made no bribe payments to co-conspirators. Talk to people who know me. Climbers at Camp Four. Search my bank accounts. I’m an open book.”

“You can take that to the bank. Anyone else on the mountain maybe wanted the
Heights
gig? Or had a beef with Hallis?”

“Part one is easy. Everyone wanted the
Heights
gig. But I doubt anyone was plotting murder to get it. Up there, all your energy goes into surviving. You stick with your group. You huddle in your tent. There’s no swapping email addresses.” Gass considered. “As to hostility, no. No opportunity. The only person I saw Bright talk to, other than us, was a solo climber from somewhere in South America.”

“The woman she helped up Hillary Step?” I asked.

“Hell-o? I never made it that far. I only noticed her once, at Camp Three, didn’t pay much attention because I was worried I was getting HACE.”

“Did you catch the other woman’s name?” I asked.

“Sorry. I think Damon joined them. I never talked to her.” Gass abandoned his eggs. Laid down his fork. Seemed to go deep into thought. Deep into another time.

Slidell and I exchanged glances. Waited.

“On the mountain, you’re one-dimensional. You exist as a jacket color. A shape. A stereotype. The Japanese in the red cap. The dude with the Canadian flag. The Australian with the lavender boots. Bright was the American blonde in the lime-green jacket. To me, that woman was just the girl talking to Bright.”

Gass’s eyes reddened. He whipped off his glasses and swiped them angrily with the heels of his hands. The first sign of grief I’d seen.

“Sorry.” Repositioning the specs. “I never got to say goodbye. Bright was just…gone. Killed by the Nepalese government.”

“S’cuse me?” Slidell’s tone was razor sharp. “You talking a serious suspect?”

Deep sigh. “Everest isn’t being regulated rationally. There are no prerequisites for climbing experience, no rules covering who can be an outfitter. Any fool can hang out a shingle. One guide from Connecticut Photoshopped a fake summit for creds and has since abandoned three clients at the top. He claimed they were beyond help, but he didn’t report the situation for two days!” Gass was winding up for a topic that was clearly upsetting for him. “And no one does anything! It’s like open season for high-altitude death.”