Free Bones on Ice: A Novella by Kathy Reichs Page A

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