by Kathy Reichs
“Right as rain,” I said.
As if cued by my flippant response, my phone sang from below the table. I glanced into my open beach bag. The screen showed a caller with laser-blue eyes and wind-tousled hair. Surreptitiously, I hit decline. I’d tell Ryan all about the past few days. But not now.
“Here’s to Isle of Palms.” Anne lifted her wineglass and chinked it against my ice tea. “Flat as a twelve-year-old.” After a swallow of Chardonnay, she asked, “What’ll happen to Damon James?”
“Hard to say.” I pushed some lettuce around on my plate. Scored a crouton. The real reason to eat Caesar salad. “He didn’t get far. After Slidell issued a BOLO, a CMPD cruiser picked him up at a gas station near Kannapolis. He’s cooling his heels in the box right now.”
“For murder?”
“Doubtful. There’s no proof he killed Brighton Hallis.”
“But you think he did.”
I pictured cold green eyes. Remembered a bony shoulder slamming my gut.
“I do.”
“Why did he do it? He had access to the money.”
“Greed? Revenge? Rage? Feeling used can mess with a person’s mind. So can the promise of a large sum of money. Maybe he wanted the whole pot. Maybe Hallis pushed him past the tipping point. Maybe it was a split-second impulse. Or maybe she just slipped.” I didn’t really buy the last option. “James is lawyered up and not talking. I wouldn’t, either, were I in his shoes.”
“But the asshole tried to kill you.”
“They’ve charged him with assault and battery and attempted murder. He says I fell into the water. There were no witnesses. It’s my word against his.”
“So he walks?” Anne refilled her glass. To soothe her outrage.
I was outraged, also. Two girls dead in the most godforsaken places on earth. Fuentes on Everest. Hallis on Aconcagua. A good possibility no one would pay.
“James will definitely do time,” I said. “There’s a very patient, very determined crew over at Financial Crimes. They and the DA are working hard to ensure a conviction.”
Anne nodded her approval.
I tilted my head to allow the offshore breeze full access to my flushed skin. “The paper trail is apparently a thing of beauty. Proving embezzlement was easy. So was tracking the missing money to James’s Cayman Islands account.”
“Dumb shit.” Anne rarely minced words. Or held back.
I inhaled salt-laced air. Savored the roughness of Anne’s beach house deck on the soles of my bare feet.
“How did Blythe Hallis take the news that her little angel was a crook?”
“As you’d expect,” I said. “Composed, ever the lady.” I thought a moment. Added, “She insisted on paying for Viviana Fuentes’s burial in Santiago, next to her father. She’s also making good for every penny of the stolen money.”
“Really?” Anne took another sip, then settled back, legs up, ankles crossed on the railing.
“Same nonprofit. Same mission. New name. Vivi’s Fund. Dara Steele and Elon Gass are going to run it.”
“Out of the goodness of their little snake hearts.” Anne chortled at her own joke. She did it a lot.
I shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to watch The Heights to find out.”
“Pass. If I want to observe narcissism in high places, I’ll tune in to C-SPAN. How about a beach walk?”
“You’re on.”
She rose and carried our plates to the kitchen. I lingered. Wondering. Had Damon James been right? Or had something good come from bringing Brighton Hallis down from Everest?
Yes, I decided. Definitely yes.
Viviana Fuentes was mourned, if only by me. Lying safely beside her beloved father, she would not spend her eternity as a macabre landmark in a top-of-the-world death zone. It wasn’t much. But it was something.
“Let’s hit it.” Anne had reappeared wearing a hat the size of her table.
We stepped out into the Carolina sun. Wind teasing my hair, sand caressing my toes, I felt the frozen knots of frustration begin to thaw.
Author’s Note
Bones on Ice was inspired by a story I read in the fall of 2014, describing more than two hundred bodies frozen in the so-called death zone of Mount Everest. The body of the legendary mountaineer George Mallory has remained intact on the peak since 1924. Others have evolved into more recent climbing landmarks, such as “Green Boots Cave,” or “Rainbow Valley,” named for the multicolored down jackets and climbing gear of corpses dotting the hillside. I was horrified and fascinated, and couldn’t help wondering what would happen if one of those bodies came down and revealed unexpected secrets.
I immersed myself in researching the triumphs and perils of high-altitude climbing and began to write. This story was nearly complete when tragedy struck on April 25, 2015. A magnitude 7.8 earthquake hit northwest of Nepal’s capital, Kathmandu, killing more than 8,000 people, injuring 23,000 more, destroying thousands of homes, and flattening entire villages.
An avalanche triggered by the earthquake slammed into Mount Everest base camp, killing nineteen, making it that mountain’s deadliest day ever. Dozens more were injured and hundreds were stranded above base camp, futures uncertain.
On May 12, 2015, a second earthquake, magnitude 7.3, rocked Nepal, bringing further loss and destruction.
I stopped writing, uncertain. I didn’t want to exploit such a tragedy. At the same time, I more than ever wanted to share the stories of Everest. I’d been touched by the heartbreaking losses and the triumphant victories.
I decided to complete this work to honor those lost, and to direct attention to organizations providing disaster relief, and to groups dedicated to improving long-term conditions for the indigenous communities of Everest.
Sherpas are a Nepalese ethnic group numbering around 150,000. They are renowned for their climbing skills and superior strength and endurance at high altitudes. They are essential to any Everest outing, acting as guides and porters, doing everything from carrying loads to setting up camps. They secure the climbing routes, fix lines, ferry supplies, and conduct clients to the top of Himalayan peaks. They also face the highest risks.
Devastation in the wake of the earthquakes is severe. Nepali relief efforts continue, and financial support is desperately needed. If you have been moved by the news, please visit the websites of these worthy nonprofit organizations:
ActionAid USA
International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies
Nepal Red Cross Society
Oxfam International
World Vision
Nepali Sherpas serve as the bedrock of an industry with the highest mortality rate in the world, and do so for a fraction of the pay received by Western guides. Conditions in the region are harsh. Many worthy groups strive to ameliorate the Sherpa standard of living. Please visit the websites of the following nonprofits:
American Alpine Club Sherpa Support Fund
Himalayan Trust
The Juniper Fund
Sherpa Education Fund
Sherpa Healthcare Nepal
This work is dedicated to all those who perished in the Nepal earthquakes of April 25, 2015, and May 12, 2015, and to all the responders who fought to put things right in the aftermath.
Acknowledgments
As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to others for their help on Bones on Ice. My daughter, the news junkie and author Kerry Reichs, has an unerring ability to see the stories behind the news. She read an article about bodies used as landmarks in the death zone of Mount Everest, researched high-altitude climbing, and brought me a “killer” story idea. I want to thank my assistant Melissa Fish for her unflagging enthusiasm and diligent research on any project I hand her.
Carson Sprow at International Mortuary Shipping was patient and thorough in walking me through the bureaucracy and details of shipping frozen remains from Kathmandu, Nepal, to Charlotte, North Carolina. Chuck Henson of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department good-naturedly fielded my questions on
jurisdictional matters of international crime, no matter how bizarre. The editorial comments of Jennifer Hershey and Anne Speyer made the work infinitely stronger.
To prepare for this book, I immersed myself in the stories of those who climb. Credit for my newfound knowledge goes to Into Thin Air, by Jon Krakauer; The Climb, by Anatoli Boukreev; the website of noted mountaineer Alan Arnette; and numerous online articles and blogs that share their authors’ personal experiences.
The dangers of climbing the tallest mountain on earth are legion, yet generation after generation responds to the siren song of Mount Everest. My story could not exist without theirs, so I tip my hat to all those determined to summit an impossible peak “because it was there.”
BOOKS BY KATHY REICHS
Speaking in Bones
Bones on Ice (novella)
Bones Never Lie
Swamp Bones (novella)
Bones of the Lost
Bones in Her Pocket (novella)
Bones Are Forever
Flash and Bones
Spider Bones
206 Bones
Devil Bones
Bones to Ashes
Break No Bones
Cross Bones
Monday Mourning
Bare Bones
Grave Secrets
Fatal Voyage
Deadly Decisions
Death du Jour
Déjà Dead
Young Adult Fiction (with Brendan Reichs)
Virals
Seizure
Shift (novella)
Code
Swipe (novella)
Shock (novella)
Exposure
Terminal
About the Author
KATHY REICHS is the author of seventeen New York Times bestselling novels featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Like her protagonist, Reichs is a forensic anthropologist–one of fewer than one hundred ever certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. A professor in the department of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, she is a former vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. Reichs’s own life, as much as her novels, is the basis for the TV show Bones, one of the longest-running series in the history of the Fox network.
kathyreichs.com
Facebook.com/KathyReichsBooks
@KathyReichs
Kathy Reichs’s bestselling novels have captured the attention of millions of readers and serve as the basis for Bones, the longest-running drama on the Fox television network.
Read on for an excerpt from Dr. Temperance Brennan’s next thrilling case, Speaking in Bones, by Kathy Reichs, on sale July 21, 2015.
Chapter 1
“I’m unbound now. My wrists and ankles burn from the straps. My ribs are bruised and there’s a lump behind my ear. I don’t remember hitting my head. I’m lying very still because my whole body aches. Like I’ve been in a wreck. Like the time I crashed my bike. Why doesn’t my family save me? Is no one missing me? I have only my family. No friends. It was just too hard. I’m all alone. So alone. How long have I been here? Where is here? The whole world is slipping away. Everything. Everyone. Am I awake or asleep? Am I dreaming or is this real? Is it day or night?
“When they return they will hurt me again. Why? Why is this happening to me? I can’t hear a sound. No. That’s not true. I can hear my heart beating. Blood working inside my ears. I taste something bitter. Probably vomit stuck in my teeth. I smell cement. My own sweat. My dirty hair. I hate when my hair isn’t washed. I’m gonna open my eyes now. Got one. The other’s crusted shut. Can’t see much. It’s all blurry, like I’m looking up from way down underwater.
“I hate the waiting. That’s when the pictures take over my brain. Not sure if they’re memories or hallucinations. I see him. Always in black, his face crazy red and beaded with sweat. I avoid his eyes. Keep looking at his shoes. Shiny shoes. The candle flame’s a little yellow worm dancing on the leather. He stands over me, all big and nasty. Thrusts his horrid, smelly face close to mine. I feel his icky breath on my skin. He gets mad and yanks me by the hair. His veins go all bulgy. He screams and his words sound like they’re coming from another planet. Or like I’ve left my body and I’m listening from far away. I see his hand coming at me, clutching the thing so tight it quivers. I know I’m shaking but I’m numb. Or am I dead?
“No! Not now! Don’t let it happen now!
“My hands are going all cold and tingly. I shouldn’t be talking about him. I shouldn’t have said he was horrid.
“Yes. They’re coming.
“Why is this happening to me? What did I do? I’ve always tried to be good. Tried to do what Mama said. Don’t let them kill me! Mama, please don’t let them kill me!
“My mind is going all fuzzy. I have to stop talking.”
Silence, then the click-creak of a door opening. Closing.
Footsteps, unhurried, firm on the floor.
“Take your place.”
“No!”
“Don’t resist me.”
“Leave me alone!”
The cadence of frantic breathing.
The thunk of a blow.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Do as I say.”
Sobbing.
Sound as if dragging.
Moaning. Rhythmic.
“Are you in my hands?”
“Filthy bitch!” Louder, deeper.
A soft rasp.
The tick of metal snapping into place.
“You will die, slut!”
“Will you answer me now?”
“Whore!”
The drumming of agitated fingers. Scratching.
“Give me what I need!”
Pfff! The violent hurling of spit.
“You will not answer?”
Moaning.
“This has only begun.”
Click-creak. The furious slam of a door.
Absolute stillness. Soft sobbing.
“Please don’t kill me.
“Please don’t kill me.
“Please.
“Kill me.”
Chapter 2
The woman’s knuckles bulged pale under skin that was cracked and chapped. Using one knobby finger, she depressed a button on the object in the Ziploc.
The room went still.
I sat motionless, the hairs on my neck lifted like grass in a breeze.
The woman’s eyes stayed hard on mine. They were green flecked with yellow, and made me think of a cat. A cat that could bide, then pounce with deadly accuracy.
I let the silence stretch. Partly to calm my own nerves. Mostly to encourage the woman to explain the purpose of her visit. I had flight reservations in just a few hours. So much to do before heading to the airport. To Montreal and Ryan. I didn’t need this. But I had to know the meaning of the terrible sounds I’d just heard.
The woman remained angled forward in her chair. Tense. Expectant. She was tall, at least six feet, and wore boots, jeans, and a denim shirt with the cuffs rolled up her lower arms. Her hair was dyed the color of the clay at Roland Garros. She’d yanked it into a bun high on her head.
My eyes broke free from the cat-gaze and drifted to the wall at the woman’s back. To a framed certificate declaring Temperance Brennan a diplomate of the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. D-ABFA. The exam had been a bitch.
I was alone with my visitor in the 120 square feet allocated to the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s consulting forensic anthropologist. I’d left the door open. Not sure why. Usually I close it. Something about the woman made me uneasy.
Familiar workplace sounds drifted in from the corridor. A ringing phone. A cooler door whooshing open then clicking shut. A rubber-wheeled gurney rolling toward an autopsy suite.
“I’m sorry.” I was pleased that my voice sounded calm. “The receptionist provided your name but I’ve misplaced my note.”
“Strike. Haz
el Strike.”
That caused a little ping in my brain. What?
“Folks call me Lucky.”
I said nothing.
“But I never rely on luck. I work hard at what I do.” Though I guessed Strike’s age at somewhere north of sixty, her voice was still twenty-something strong. The accent suggested she was probably local.
“And what is it you do, Ms. Strike?”
“Mrs. My husband passed six years back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He knew the risk, chose to smoke.” Slight lift of one shoulder. “You pay the price.”
“What is it you do?” I repeated, wanting to draw Strike back on point.
“Send the dead home.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I match bodies to people gone missing.”
“That is the task of law enforcement in conjunction with coroners and medical examiners,” I said.
“And you pros nail it every time.”
I bit back another priggish response. Strike had a point. Stats I’d read put the number of missing persons in the United States at around 90,000 at any given time, the number of unidentified remains from the past fifty years at more than 40,000. The last count I saw placed the North Carolina UID total at 115.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Strike?”
“Lucky.”
“Lucky.”
Strike placed the Ziploc beside a bright yellow case file on my blotter. In it was a gray plastic rectangle, roughly one inch wide, two inches long, and a half inch thick. A metal ring at one end suggested dual functions as a recorder and a key chain. A loop of faded denim suggested the device had once hung from the waistband of a pair of jeans.
“Impressive little gizmo,” Strike said. “Voice activated. Two-gigabyte internal flash memory. Sells for less than a hundred bucks.”
The yellow folder called to me. Accusingly. Two months earlier a man had died in his recliner, TV remote clutched in one hand. The previous weekend his mummified corpse had been found by a very unhappy landlord. I needed to wrap this up and get back to my analysis. Then home to packing and the delivery of my cat to the neighbor.
