Bones on Ice: A Novella (3 page)

“My point is that when Brighton was focused, nothing got in her way.” Hallis had recomposed her face. “It astonishes me that a context as knowable as Everest could have defeated her.”

Did the woman cradle the delusion that her daughter was incapable of error? Or was she implying something else? Something more sinister?

Hallis misread my look as one of disdain. “Please don’t judge me, Dr. Brennan. I’m no fool. I don’t believe my daughter was faultless. But climbing was her passion. She
spared no expense on training and equipment. No one was more aware of and prepared for the risks. I simply need to know how she died.”

I was confused. Was that the real ask? Point a finger elsewhere so her daughter’s image remains unblemished?

“I can’t make any promises,” I said.

“All I desire is a thorough examination. If there’s any indication this accident was caused by faulty equipment or poor instruction, I want to know.”

Bingo. Lawsuit. How the wealthy deal with loss. My budding sympathy began to ebb.

“I promise we will do our best.” I stood, slung my purse over one shoulder, and tucked the envelope under my arm. “My findings will be in my report.”

Hallis rose, the Chanel showing not a hint of a wrinkle.

“I’ve arranged for you to interview Brighton’s climbing team. Dara Steele, Cash Reynolds, and Damon James will meet you at Leroy Fox tomorrow at noon. I left venue selection to them.” Her tone apologized for the lowbrow choice of one of my favorite gastropubs. “The bill will come to me, naturally. Feel free to ask them anything. In my experience, they won’t offer.”

Hallis’s smile was accustomed to being returned. I didn’t. The woman’s assumption of submission was astounding.

“I’ll check my schedule,” I said.

“My friends and I are grateful for your efforts.” No need to name the “friends.”

One manicured hand came forward. We shook, Hallis not contacting a molecule more of my skin than necessary.

Outside, the sky was pink streaked with yellow, aiming for night. I stood a moment, listening to the whisper of wind in the ancient oaks. Taking in the smell of crocus nudging through earth newly released from winter’s long grip. Enjoying the serenity of an early spring dusk.

Not knowing it was the last peaceful moment I’d have for some time.

Sunday began with a white furry paw batting my nose. Birdie wanted breakfast. After a few ineffective elbow shoves, I gave up and hauled myself out of bed. Sleep hath no enemy like an unrelenting cat.

Bird’s penance was to dine solo. I took my bagel and coffee outside to the patio, ignoring a voicemail I knew to be from Ryan. Face buried in kibble, the cat bore the slight with aplomb. Or didn’t notice.

Around me, azaleas winked pink and white among the waxy green leaves of bushes planted years before I moved into Sharon Hall. The air was rich with the scent of spores and pollen, with the promise of life and allergies about to burst forth. Over the wall, a lone church bell called out to the faithful.

The sky was unblemished, the sun soft and warm on my shoulders and hair. It was a morning for hiking or biking, for gardening or reading a novel on a lounger. Not for mummified corpses and icy death.

The buzz of my mobile interrupted my thoughts. I answered and clicked off the ringtone silencer in one move.

“You missed a good time last night.” Anne and I had been invited to a dinner party at the home of a mutual friend. She’d gone, I’d bailed. After meeting with Blythe Hallis, I’d been too bummed.

“But I’m enjoying a great morning.” Garbled by cream cheese and dough.

“What are you eating?”

“Bagel.”

“How’s the corpsicle?” Never subtle, and not totally sober, Anne had phoned the previous evening demanding the whole story. Naming no names, I’d given her the bare bones.

“Frostier than a Greco-German economy summit,” I said.

“Good one.” Anne and I liked making up outlandish similes. It was a game we played.

“Strained,” I said.

“A bit.”

For a moment, empty air hummed across the line. I took another bite of bagel. Coffee. Anne spoke first.

“My view? Jumping out of planes or scrabbling up precipices is batshit crazy.”

Amen to that.

“It’s still sad,” I said. “Life shouldn’t end at twenty-four. But I agree. I don’t see the point of deliberately endangering yourself for a rush. Hang gliding. Crocodile bungeeing. BASE jumping. Ice climbing.”

“Buying sushi from a street vendor in Tijuana.”

“Why do it?”

“Costs less.”

“I mean extreme sport.” Eyes rolling. Which she couldn’t see.

“The thrill of the chase? The chase of the thrill?”

“More like a subliminal death wish. Did you know that the odds of dying in a random accident are three percent? The odds of dying on Everest are more than double that. This kid had everything. Now she’s lying in a cooler with a tag on her toe.” Close enough.

“Aren’t you being a teeny bit hypocritical?” Anne needled.

“What?”

“You’re always all clappety-clap for women who put it all out there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Amelia Earhart? Sally Ride? Diana Nyad?”

“That’s totally different.”

“Is it?”

The conversational twists and turns were making me dizzy. An effect not uncommon when talking to Anne. I switched tack.

“The mother claims all the daredevil antics were for Daddy’s approval.”

“Well blow me down. Do I hear shades of connection to young Tempe and her elusive mother?”

“Why is it you called again?” Mock annoyed.

Anne launched into a tale of a morning adventure involving a hose, a raccoon, and a badly bruised knee. I half-listened, chewing and inserting comforting sounds at appropriate points. Following a particularly long pause, I said, “Good for you.”

“It was his ass or mine.”

“Gotta run.”

“Seeyalaterbye.” I always appreciate Anne’s speedy disconnects.

I raised my chin, eyes closed, to let the fast-warming rays bathe my face. In my mind I saw Blythe Hallis in her chic couture and designer makeup. Recalled her arrogance. Also remembered that moment when the mask slipped. Whatever her faults, the woman had lost a daughter.

I rose, massaging the waffle ironwork pattern imprinted on the backs of my thighs. There was little point in going to the lab. No way ME215-15 could be thawed yet. But
what the hell? I’d give it a shot.

I stopped mid-step, mug and plate half off the table. Was that where Anne had been going? Was I driven? Was I like Brighton Hallis after all?

The MCME facility was deserted save for a minimal weekend crew, and humming with such absence of activity that every sound seemed to crack like gunfire. A puff of HVAC air hitting a vent. A door clicking shut. A phone ringing out of sight down a hall. I geared up, went to autopsy room five, and rolled Brighton Hallis from her chilly overnight resting place.

The porcelain skin had grown pallid and lost its gleam. I pressed a thumb into the flesh of one shoulder. Noted some softening. Encouraged, I tried flexing the right elbow. While far from supple, there was some give. Mimicking therapy Gran had undergone following knee replacement surgery, I massaged each limb, slowly, methodically, in my mind easing the body toward prone. Ninety minutes later, my headway could have been measured in fractions of microns.

“It’s a start. You’ll do better tomorrow.” Rewrapping the girl on the table in plastic sheeting. “Soon we’ll have you flat enough for Victorian sex.”

Jesus! Did I really say that? Time to go.

Stripping off gloves, mask, and apron, I washed up and headed to Leroy Fox, a spot with several things in its favor: Good food. Easy parking. Proximity to home. Not part of the ladies-who-lunch set, I was pleased Blythe Hallis had left venue selection to others.

Bingo. A spot right at the door. Inside, the décor was industrial chic meets locker-room manly. All around, balls of various sizes and shapes were dribbled and arced and pitched and scratched on screens sharp enough to beam satellite images from Mars. The hostess, a twentysomething in tight top and black jeans, whispered “Hallis” to her cohort, another twentysomething in tight top and black jeans. Smiling broadly, a mistake given the calamity that was her dentition, Black Jeans Two led me to one of a row of booths lining the back wall.

A man and woman sat shoulder to shoulder on one bench. Neither looked on speaking terms with thirty. Hearing my approach, they exchanged slicing sideways glances before facing me, expressionless. I took the woman to be Dara Steele. Him, I wasn’t sure.

“Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Thrusting a hand forward and flashing my most disarming smile.

Steele’s grip was as limp as her straggly ponytail. Dropping her hand to her lap, she recoiled as though trying to mold her skinny frame into her companion’s negative spaces.

“Cash Reynolds.” The guy shook with more snap, but zero friendliness.

“May I?” Cocking my chin toward the empty bench.

Reynolds nodded, making as little eye contact as possible.

I slid into the booth, discreetly assessing the pair. Reynolds was big and muscular, probably used to being told he was good-looking. Dark brown eyes. Walnut hair carefully arranged to look carelessly disarranged. Toned forearms bulging from rolled chambray cuffs. Steele looked like a colorless scarecrow burrowing into his leftover air.

“Mrs. Hallis said I’d be meeting with three members of Brighton’s team?” Inflection implying the question.

“Damon’s late.” Reynolds, one thumb working condensation on the side of his mug.

“As usual.” Steele’s pitch suggested she wasn’t amused.

A waitress appeared at our booth. Yep. Tight top and black jeans. Hers were draped with a little apron tied at the waist.

“Who knows with Damon. We should order.” Without querying my readiness, Reynolds asked for burgers and fries for himself and Steele, refills on their ginger ales. Showing he was a take-charge guy? Anxious to be gone? A self-focused prick?

Reserving judgment for the moment, I went with fried chicken, fried zucchini, and Diet Coke. What the hell? It was Sunday. And I hadn’t had time to read the menu.

“Thanks for meeting with me.” As though we’d gathered by choice. “I’d like to learn as much as possible about what happened on Everest the day Brighton died.”

Again, the flicking eyes, the closed faces. And a whole lot of silence.

Seconds ticked past. A full minute. Another.

Alrighty, then. New approach. Side door. “How did you all meet?”

“SheClimbs Charlotte.” Steele sounded, well, steely. “It’s a woman’s climbing group.”

Reynolds looked uncomfortable. And silent. Red burned high on each of his cheeks.

“Go on, Cash.” Steele prodded. When Reynolds didn’t comment, she did. “Brighton and Cash used to date.”

“Christ, Dara. Let it go!”

Steele’s eyes dropped and her body drew inward, like that of a chastened puppy.

“You and Brighton were a couple?” Directed to Reynolds.

“Briefly.”

“On Everest?”

More silence.

“Depends who you ask,” Steele answered cryptically. Reynolds studied his fork.

I was about to follow up when our waitress delivered enough food to feed a ninth grade. We took a moment with seasonings and condiments and dipping sauces. Then I
asked, “Who else was on your Everest team?”

“Damon James was Bright’s business partner,” Steele answered, after a glance at Reynolds, who ignored her. “She knew Elon Gass from college. Bright began pulling together an Everest team, like, eons before the contest.”

“Contest?”

“Reality show,” Reynolds corrected. “
The Heights
. Like Anthony Bourdain’s
Parts Unknown
, but about mountaineering. The production company was looking for a host. The climbing community was going apeshit.”

“Brighton wanted to be cast?” To Steele.

“Who didn’t? Get paid to wear cool gear, travel to amazing places, test out hotels and commercial guide groups, be a celebrity? Everyone was wetting their pants to get picked.”

“Including you?”

Blank look.

“Were you hoping to be picked?”

One bony shoulder lifted ever so slightly.

“Like that was ever gonna happen.” Reynolds’s tone was harsh. I was definitely leaning toward the prick theory. “Right out the door, these guys loved Brighton. She was sure the gig was in the bag once she nailed the tallest mountain in the world.”

“Bright convinced us we needed Everest to be serious contenders,” Steele agreed.

“And now the field’s wide open.” Habit. My brain was already going to a dark place.

Reynolds shook his head. “Elon’s their new golden boy. If he ever gets back from Russia.”

Steele snorted. “Whatever. They can’t pick the dude who turned back before reaching the top.”

“Elon didn’t summit Everest with you?”

“No. And now he’s a finalist. Show’s a joke.”

It was the most emotion I’d seen from Steele. A sore point?

“So Brighton was your guide?”

“Are you kidding?” Reynolds mashed a fry into ketchup, downed it. “None of us is qualified to be a guide. We’re Seven Summits people.”

“The highest points on each of the seven continents.” I repeated my nugget of climbing knowledge. But something had bugged me since the subject had arisen with Blythe Hallis earlier. I’d gophered around in my freshman-year world geography memories. “Aren’t there only six? Africa, Antarctica, Australia, Eurasia, South America, and North America.”

“Geologically, yes. Politically, no. Europe and Asia are considered separate, so you include Mont Blanc between France and Italy, and Elbrus, along Russia’s southern border with Asia. It’s actually eight, because you have to do two for the Oceanic continental mass. Kosciuszko is the highest point on the Australian mainland, but the Carstensz Pyramid of Papua New Guinea is technically taller.”

Reynolds might be obnoxious, but he wasn’t dumb. I started to ask a question, but he cut me off.

“The point is”—air jab with a fry—“that none of the Seven Summits are extreme mountaineering climbs. Even with the altitude challenges, Everest isn’t technical. We thought we were trained and in shape.”

“We really thought we could do it,” Steele echoed.

“So what happened?” I was growing less patient with their skirting and dodging.

“Altitude.”

“Go on.” Bunching and tossing my napkin onto my plate. Which was largely empty now.

“We didn’t really know what we were getting into. None of us were eight-thousanders.”

“Pretend I don’t read
Outside
magazine,” I said.

“Eight-thousanders are the fourteen peaks in the Himalayan and Karakoram ranges with summits in the death zone.”

“Altitudes at which there isn’t sufficient oxygen to sustain human life.” There. I knew that, too. Tough on humans. Above eight thousand meters, oxyhemoglobin levels plummet.

“We were all death zone virgins.” As Reynolds answered, Steele shrank even more, eyes down, face still as a moth on a branch. I gathered she hadn’t enjoyed her visit to the death zone. “Everything’s a bitch above eight thousand meters. Breathing, eating, pissing, sleeping. Ever hear of HAPE and HACE?”

Reynolds used the acronyms for “high-altitude pulmonary edema” and “high-altitude cerebral edema.” In lay terms, fluid in the lungs or brain. Triggered by oxygen deprivation, HAPE and HACE are the primary causes of death related to high-altitude exposure.

“Is that what killed Brighton?”

“What am I, a doctor?” The retort carried some strong emotion. Anguish? Guilt?

Flash of insight. “You weren’t with her when she died. Neither of you.”

From Steele, a haunted stare. From Reynolds, a nervous thumb working sweat on his mug.

I pushed my plate to one side. Sipped my drink. Let the silence stretch. Reynolds broke it first.

“You don’t know what it’s like up there.”

“Tell me.” Waving off the waitress who was heading our way.

“Everything’s wrong—the air smells different, your clothes feel different, your food tastes different.
If
you can manage food at all.” He paused, struggling, dissatisfied with what he’d just said. “At the top, your brain doesn’t work. Taking one step feels like running a marathon.”

“I had to walk around a dead body,” Steele’s voice floated like smoke from her shadowy corner. “My brain was telling me to cry, but all I could think about was getting up, getting down, getting away.”