J Moncrieff - Return to Dyatlov Pass

Her once-lovely features were swollen and dark with bruises. Deep purple and reddish abrasions covered her hands as well. Lana had not gone quietly.

Nat swallowed hard against the discomfort of déjà vu. She had seen this scene before, and she knew exactly where. By either happenstance or design, Lana’s body mimicked that of Zinaida Alekseevna Kolmogorova, one of the Dyatlov group.

Eyeing the men who stood with her, heads bowed, Nat had the uncomfortable realization she was the only woman left. Lyudmila had no doubt suffered, watching her female friends die, and now she was in the same position. Given what had happened to Lyudmila, it wasn’t a comforting thought.

“How could you?” The words erupted from her lips before she could think better of them. She felt Andrew’s absence like a missing limb. He had always stepped in on her behalf, smoothed things over, played the diplomat. He’d saved her from herself.

Steven’s brows knitted together, his features a gathering storm. For the first time, she wondered if it was smart to openly challenge this man. If she truly believed he’d murdered three people with no motive at all, it wasn’t the brightest move to give him an ironclad one.

But when he spoke, his voice didn’t hint at the fury in his eyes. “You can’t be serious. You can’t seriously think I’m responsible for this.”

“If not you or Vasily, who else?” When she said the Mansi’s name, Vasily shrank back as though she’d slapped him. She watched herself as if from afar. Why was she acting this way? And worse, why couldn’t she stop?

“Jesus Christ, Nat. Look at her. Look at her. See her hands? Whatever did this got the fight of its life. The killer would be covered in cuts and scratches, bruises for sure.” Steven tilted his head, lifting his chiseled cheekbone to the light. “Take a look. Not a scratch. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t know.” She held her hands tightly together to keep from punching him right on his pristine chin. “I don’t know, okay? I just know one of you had to have done it.”

“Why? Nat, that’s crazy. I could see you maybe thinking that about Joe after the scuffle we had, but what reason could I possibly have for hurting Lana? As you so discreetly pointed out, I was more than a little fond of her.”

Fond of her. Unable to stand it any longer, Nat sank to her knees in the snow beside the skier’s body. Taking off one of her gloves, she touched Lana’s bare fist. It was cold and hard, like rock. Already frozen. The Olympian had been here a while.

“What are you doing?” Steven lifted her under the arms, pulling her to her feet, a lot more gently than she deserved, in light of the fact she’d just accused him of murder—again. “You can’t touch her. There’ll be evidence on her hands: skin, hair, clothing fibers, DNA. Like it or not, this is a crime scene now. The more we touch it, the more we contaminate it. We should find some plastic bags and put them on her hands, preserve the evidence as best we can.”

“I’m s-sorry. You’re right. She just looks so sad, so alone. I… needed to do something to comfort her.”

“She’s dead, Nat. The best thing we can do for her now is help the police find her killer.”

“I will go find the bags,” Igor said, the first words he’d spoken since Steven and Vasily had led them to the body. He’d gotten along well with Lana too. Nat remembered them laughing and joking together, the easy camaraderie they’d had. Then again, Lana had been like that with everyone. The campsite already seemed colder and more dismal without her.

“In the front pocket of my pack there are some sterile ones. We can use those,” Steven said.

The Russian nodded, looking relieved to have a reason to leave, if only for a few minutes. If this continued, these woods would soon be an abattoir. Some podcaster of the future would cover the killings, talking about the great mystery of their deaths. The McPherson Pass incident. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so fucking depressing.

Nat raised an eyebrow. “You brought sterile bags?” Had he been expecting a crime scene?

“Food storage. You should go with him.”

“Why? I’m sure he’s more than capable of finding the bags on his own.”

“There’s no reason for you to hang around here. You too, Vasily. Get back to the fire where it’s warm. Once Igor comes back, it’ll only take me a few minutes to bag her hands, and then I’ll join you. We can discuss our options then.”

Discuss our options. It sounded so formal, as if they were project managers at a job site instead of three dazed and deluded fools standing over the corpse of their dead friend. Nat averted her eyes. She felt guilty for not looking at Lana, but the sight of her battered body made Nat’s heart twist in despair. She would forever see the woman’s bruised face in her nightmares.

“Do you have experience with this sort of thing?”

Steven was too cool, too controlled. Perhaps it was an act, but it wasn’t normal. Then again, nothing about this situation was normal. Any minute, Nat expected someone to lose their mind and run around the campsite yelling gibberish. Most of the time, she expected it to be her.

The corners of his mouth rose in a faint imitation of a smirk. “Only what I’ve learned on CSI. Go on, Vasily. You take her back.”

“I can go by myself,” she protested, but the truth was, it did feel comforting when the Mansi slipped his arm through hers. The gesture was unexpected. This must have been difficult for him too. She was sure he didn’t ordinarily lose three members of his group to murder.

The walk back to the campsite and their fire went much faster than their journey into the woods. Once the terrible scene was at their backs, Nat felt a desperate need to escape. She quickened her step, and Vasily, perhaps feeling the same, did as well.

She’d expected to bump into Igor on the way, and as they drew nearer and nearer to camp, an awful realization dawned on her. Once again, they’d separated. What if something had happened to the Russian? What if he were dead too? She nearly wept with relief when they made it to the clearing and she spotted him, crouched at the entrance of Steven’s tent, the mountaineer’s backpack in his hands.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you find the bags?”

Bright bursts of color flared on Igor’s cheeks, and when he looked up at her, his eyes were glassy.

“What is it, Igor?”

“I found them. But I also found this.” He pulled out a knife, its blade winking cruelly in the gray light. Nat was no expert on knives, but she was pretty sure it had belonged to Joe, the same blade the trapper had threatened Steven with.

Its edge was darkened with dried blood.

Nat clutched her head with both hands, attempting to distract herself from the pounding in her brain. It felt like they’d been fighting, hollering at each other for hours, though it had probably only been about thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of hell.

“Sue me because I thought it was smart to have some kind of weapon.” Steven’s voice cut through the campsite, creating an echo. It was eerie to hear his words float back to them. “Call me crazy, but as two of us were dead at that point, I thought it might be a good fucking idea to be able to defend myself.”

“What is wrong with you people? Steven is not a murderer. He was right to take the knife.” Vasily positioned himself between Igor and the mountaineer, as though he thought Steven were in danger of attack. Since when had he developed such a loyalty to that wretched man? Nat guessed it must have been when they were skiing so far ahead of the others.

“You have to admit it looks bad. Whose blood is on it, Steven? You still haven’t answered that question,” Igor said, his voice dangerously calm.