Alex Barclay - Alex Barclay 4-Book Thriller Collection - Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss, Harm’s Reach

‘What?’

Mike nodded.

‘Holy shit,’ said Bob, his eyes wide. Mike turned around to where Bob was staring.

‘It’s my pizza!’ Bob grabbed the waitress’s arm. ‘In a box, sweetheart. And I love you right now. You have no idea.’

Quandary Peak could breathe with the breath it stole from your lungs. Stony and chiseled, it could turn on you before you had the chance to conquer it. The sky overhead showered unpredictable snow and rain, beamed surprise sun. Two-hundred-year-old miners’ cabins hid in the lodgepole pines that marked the timberline before the peak grew bare and rocky up to its full 14,265 feet.

On its south side, Blue Lakes Road stretched two and a half miles off Highway 9 to meet it. In winter, it was plowed halfway. A small group of Search and Rescue volunteers stood by the trailhead sign, like a spread from a North Face commercial. Others sat in their 4x4s, gunning their heating against the outside minus sixteen. They all had different day jobs, but came together every Wednesday night to train for Search and Rescue. They were twenty-two to sixty-two, high-energy, wired and bold.

An empty Ford 150 was the last vehicle in the line. It belonged to the Summit County Coroner, Denis Lasco, aka – depending on who you talked to – the Slowmobile, Heavy D, or Corpses Maximus.

‘Can you believe the Slowmobile got here before we did?’ said Bob.

‘He was probably looking for a place to hibernate,’ said Mike.

‘With a mouthful of nuts,’ said Bob.

‘Lasco couldn’t keep anything in his mouth without swallowing it.’

‘That’s pretty shitty,’ said Bob. ‘He’s probably got a gladur thing.’

‘It’s glandular,’ said Mike.

‘No – gladur,’ said Bob. ‘Glad you’re full, refrigerator, glad you’re full.’

They cracked up.

‘Right,’ said Mike, ‘we’re going to have to step out of the vehicle.’

‘Ugh,’ said Bob. ‘You first.’

One of the volunteers walked toward them as they got out of the Jeep.

‘Hey, Sheriff, Undersheriff,’ he said.

‘Hello, Sonny,’ said Bob. ‘Mike, this is Sonny Bryant. His father, Harve, and me go way back. I’ve known Sonny nineteen years or, as the tired saying goes, since he was in diapers.’

‘Yeah, I’m over them now,’ said Sonny, smiling.

‘They’ll come back around,’ said Bob. ‘It’s like fashion trends. I’m only a few seasons away from them myself.’

Sonny and Mike laughed.

‘Good to meet you,’ said Mike, shaking Sonny’s hand.

‘You too, sir,’ said Sonny.

‘What have we got?’ said Bob.

‘There’s a body up there, all right,’ said Sonny.

‘Man, woman, child …?’ said Bob.

‘I don’t think I’m allowed to say,’ said Sonny. ‘Mr Lasco …’

Bob rolled his eyes. ‘Let me guess: wouldn’t let you commit.’

Sonny smiled shyly. ‘Yes.’

‘He’s some piece of work,’ said Bob. ‘Is he up there alone?’

Sonny nodded. ‘Yes, he went up with a team of three and sent them back down once he knew where he was going. He said he hates people trampling his scenes.’

‘That is too true,’ said Bob. ‘And too repeated. Soon, the day will come when Lasco won’t even allow himself into a crime scene.’

Sonny laughed. ‘OK, I’m going to take you up there,’ he said. ‘Are you both coming?’

‘Sadly, yes,’ said Bob.

‘Should take about an hour,’ said Sonny. ‘We need to get going – that sun is starting to heat up.’

Denis Lasco was standing by the body with his back to them. He was dressed in a giant sapphire-blue parka and green ski pants. His head was bent over his digital camera. He half-glanced over his shoulder when he heard their footsteps in the snow.

‘You all need to stand back,’ he said, raising a hand.

‘Jesus, Lasco, we’re frickin’ miles away,’ said Bob.

‘This accident slash murder could have happened miles away,’ said Lasco.

‘Hackles,’ said Bob loudly, ‘are the erectile hairs on the back of an animal’s neck, particularly a dog. For the purposes of the moment, I am a dog. And it appears that, yes, I can confirm, my hackles are up.’

‘Professionalism,’ said Lasco loudly, ‘is the art of performing one’s job to the highest possible standards. For the purposes of this moment and all moments, I am a professional. And it appears that, yes, I can confirm, this is what makes me a grown-up and the sheriff a jealous baby.’

‘America’s Biggest Loser,’ said Bob, loudly, ‘is a –’

Lasco went rigid.

‘All right, all right,’ said Mike. ‘That’s enough of that. We can come closer, Denis, right?’

‘Sure you can,’ said Lasco. ‘I’ve taken my wide shots from where you’re standing, so just walk in my tracks.’

Bob muttered to Mike. ‘Yeah, they’re deep enough to leave a lasting impression on the landscape.’

Chapter 3

Her face was masked in a layer of clear ice. Her warm, dying breath had melted the snow that covered her. The carbon dioxide she exhaled had no place to go except back into her lungs. She was wedged from the chest down into the snow. She was zipped into a maroon ski jacket with white stripes down the arms. A navy blue Quiksilver hat covered her head. The angle of her neck was not an angle for the living.

Lasco crouched down to the eerie eyes of the body, wide open, their frozen silver centers sparkling in the sun; a cruel trick of nature.

‘Pupils fixed and dilated,’ said Lasco. He stood up. ‘I love saying that.’

‘So,’ said Bob, pointing, ‘the glass-mask tells me she was buried alive, but how come her hat is still on? An avalanche would have ripped that right off her, right?’ He turned to Mike.

‘I guess so.’

‘Depends,’ said Lasco.

‘You are a commitment-phobe,’ said Bob.

‘It’s written into our contract,’ said Lasco. ‘Commitment comes back and bites you in the ass.’

Thirty feet back, Sonny Bryant stood beside the split stretcher he had assembled, ready to transport the body down to the trailhead. Lasco sent Bob and Mike over to join him and stayed with the body, taking the GPS co-ordinates and sketching a map of the crime scene.

‘What do you think happened to her?’ said Sonny, nodding in their direction.

‘Wood poisoning?’ said Bob. Wood poisoning was skier versus tree.

‘Could there be some skis buried under there?’ said Sonny.

‘Who knows?’ said Mike. ‘I’ve given up speculating. I’m always wrong.’

‘Come on, speculate,’ said Bob. ‘Make something up.’

Mike shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Corpses Maximus said no guesses. It plants things in people’s heads.’

‘Nothing gets planted in this head,’ said Bob. ‘Nothing at all.’

Mike and Sonny laughed.

The wind rose, whipping around them, fighting their balance. Mike and Bob had their back to it, buffering Sonny from the worst.

‘Hey,’ shouted Sonny, pointing to a figure higher up the peak.

Bob shook his head. ‘Same idiots, different season. You could paper Breck with “Get off the mountain by midday or we will shoot to kill” and these people would still not get out of their beds in time to haul ass.’

Lasco didn’t hear him and was waving from where he stood, holding something in the air, fighting to be heard over Bob and the wind.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Sonny. He lunged through the gap between Bob and Mike, lifting his spotting scope to his eye. He saw a man on back-country skis, moving east–west across a snowfield. Bob, Sonny and Mike stood mesmerized, a combined weight of fear suspending any motion. Above them, the wind had raked the promontories, packing snow into ravines and chutes, pressing it deep into every hollow. The skier didn’t know what he was crossing; the difference between fallen and driven snow. He didn’t know that the black rock beneath him was a magnet to the afternoon sun. He didn’t know that the underside of the snow was heating up, turning to water, trickling downwards, weakening the platform beneath him.