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  “Don’t call me again, Cliff.”

  “Hang up if you want. I just thought you might want to speak with someone intimately connected with the case.”

  “And who would that be?” She was exhausted and irritated beyond belief, but her innate curiosity always got the better of her. She was like a cat that way.

  “Me.”

  “Right. You are connected to the Dyatlov case.”

  “From the hostility in your tone, it’s obvious you don’t believe me, but I assure you I am. Why else would I be so insistent? I have a personal stake in this.”

  This guy was unbelievable. Not only a stalker, but mentally unstable as well. Fantastic. “Forgive me for saying so, Cliff, but you don’t sound Russian.”

  “After the death of my great-aunt, my family was so traumatized they emigrated to America. I grew up on US soil, just as you did.”

  So he didn’t know she was Canadian, an immigrant herself. At least there were limitations to his stalking prowess. “Oh yeah? And who was your aunt?”

  “Lyudmila Dubinina.”

  Nat shivered. It was a lot colder in her room all of a sudden. “You’re Lyudmila’s great-nephew?”

  “That I am.”

  “I find that incredibly difficult to believe.” But wasn’t a part of her already believing it?

  “What reason would I have to lie? I told you, I have a stake in this.”

  She was impressed in spite of herself. Even with the never-ending fascination surrounding the case, few people could name any of the skiers beyond Igor Dyatlov, and many didn’t know his first name. Then again, if pretending to be Lyudmila’s nephew were Cliff’s shtick, he would have done his research.

  “If that’s true, why didn’t you say so? Why the nasty emails? Why not introduce yourself and say you wanted me to look into your great-aunt’s death, like a normal person would?”

  “Because you needed a push. Over the years, you’ve grown lazy, apathetic. If I’d asked for your help, you would have made a few phone calls, maybe, talked about it on your cast, but you would never have gone to the pass. Forgive my crudeness, Ms. McPherson, but someone needed to light a fire under your ass.”

  “If Lyudmila were really your aunt, I’m sure she wouldn’t approve of your harassing a woman.”

  “My aunt was a strong woman. She would have understood that sometimes the end justifies the means.”

  “Assuming I believe you, and I’m not saying I do, what do you think happened to her?”

  “That’s an easy question to answer. She was murdered before I was born.”

  “Murdered. You don’t believe the avalanche theory, I take it.”

  Cliff chuckled. “No, I don’t. I also don’t believe that ridiculous infrasound theory or paradoxical undressing, either.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “As I’ve said, my aunt was an incredibly strong woman. She was also an experienced skier. She’d been exploring and camping on those mountains since she was a girl. There’s no way she would have set up camp in the path of an avalanche, Ms. McPherson. This was murder.”

  Of the nine dead hikers, Nat had always felt the closest connection to Lyudmila, probably because the woman had suffered the most. She’d also been the youngest member of the group, only twenty-one years old.

  While the rest of the skiers’ bodies had been discovered in February, the same month they went missing, poor Lyudmila and her three hapless friends had to wait until May, when searchers finally found their remains buried under twelve feet of snow.

  Whoever had found her must have been traumatized for life. Lyudmila’s eyes, part of her lips, and a piece of her skull were missing, her nose was broken and flattened, and she had severe head injuries. Four of her ribs were broken on her right side and seven on the left side. Her chest was fractured. She’d suffered a massive hemorrhage in her heart’s right atrium, and her left thigh was badly bruised. The doctor who’d examined her body said an unknown compelling force had caused Lyudmila’s trauma, explaining that the power required for such damage was akin to a car hitting her.

  But that was hardly the worst of it.

  Her tongue and the muscles from inside her mouth were missing. The amount of blood in her stomach suggested the tissue had been removed while she was still alive.

  “My aunt had defensive wounds on her hands. Before she died, she fought for her life. This wasn’t something that happened to her after death. She was conscious when something ripped her tongue out and tortured her. She was aware.”

  Wincing at the terrible image of what the young woman must have suffered, Nat mentioned the same quandary Andrew had voiced for months. “This happened almost sixty years ago. What do you expect me to find?”

  “There’s something on that mountain. Something that killed my aunt and her friends, and it isn’t human. The doctor who examined the bodies admitted no human has the strength to kill this way.”

  That much was true. She’d read detailed translations of the original autopsy reports. A high level of radiation had been found on some of the bodies. There were so many things that were puzzling about this case.

  “What makes you think whatever it is will still be there?”

  “I can’t explain why I feel the way I do. Call it a hunch, call it intuition, call it my aunt’s spirit guiding me from beyond the grave. But I believe, without a doubt, that you are the one to find out what happened to her. Don’t let me down.”

  Before she could thank him for the vote of confidence, he hung up, leaving her with dead air and the nightmarish vision of a woman fighting for her life.

  ~ Chapter Three ~

  I’ve made a mistake.

  The thought had first nibbled at the corners of Nat’s conviction that morning, when she’d met “her” Mansi, a slight man with short, wavy hair and a heavily lined face. Vasily spoke strongly accented English that required no translator.

  “You’re certain you don’t have any problem taking us up there?” she’d asked once introduced, hoping for a pithy sound bite about the horrors of Kholat Syakhl, the infamous Dead Mountain.

  The man regarded her with dark eyes that were surprisingly cold. “Prefer not to, but times, they are difficult. Many of my people are starving. Others are leaving the community. I will do what must be done.”

  It sounded ominous but Nat soldiered on, determined not to let the Mansi discourage her. “When should we meet you tomorrow?”

  Vasily looked at each member of her group before responding. Anubha, the startlingly beautiful Inuit tracker. Her husband Joe, who appeared to be more than a little rough around the edges. The appropriately named Igor, a blond Russian ski instructor who smiled and nodded so frequently Nat questioned how much he understood. Lana, a Canadian survival expert who’d once been an Olympic alpine skier. Steven, an amateur mountaineer from California. And finally, herself and Andrew.

  Andrew, a California boy through and through, shivered in his brand new parka, stamping his feet to warm them. They’d been outside for less than ten minutes. For the hundredth time, Nat considered leaving him behind at their hotel in Vizhai, but her producer had always been a part of these adventures. It wouldn’t be the same without him, like undertaking a hike with a missing limb.

  Originally, the plan had been to assemble a group of nine who would mirror the characteristics and demographics of Dyatlov’s friends, but that soon proved to be impossible, as well as dangerous. Choosing someone because they were young, blonde, and Russian rather than adept at hiking and surviving was pure madness, as much as it would have made for a great show.

  “They are ready, your group? They have trained? The pass is Category III. It is difficult terrain. Only the very experienced should go.”

  Nat met Andrew’s eyes, sympathizing with the panic she saw there. Out of their group of seven, the producer was the least prepared, closely followed by her. Unlike the others, they were not elite athletes or survival experts. They had trained until their muscles had ached and each new pa
in had become indistinguishable from the last, but still—climbing mountains in California was hardly in the same category as what they’d experience tomorrow. Nat’s naturally slim frame had turned wiry and nearly gaunt with all the unaccustomed exercise, which wouldn’t stand her well if she ended up stranded on the pass somewhere. She resolved to stick close to Anubha. Or perhaps Vasily was her better bet, since he was the one with the gun.

  “Yes, we have.” She lifted her chin slightly at the expression of doubt that flitted across the Mansi’s face. What she didn’t have in athletic prowess, she more than made up for in stubbornness. She’d carry Andrew to the pass on her back if need be.

  “Do your people really believe the mountain is cursed?” Lana asked.

  Vasily’s response was a look so withering the Olympian visibly shrank inside her Canada Goose parka. “My ‘people’ live in the real world. We do not believe in fairy stories. Kholat Syakhl is a bad place, but not because of any curse.”

  “What do you mean? What makes it bad?” Nat jumped in, feeling she should rescue her fellow Canadian, whose cheeks were flushed and not by the cold.

  He shrugged. “The weather. The terrain. The wildlife. A lot of risk for little return.”

  “Wildlife? I thought you called it Dead Mountain because there was no game up there?” Steven’s question had an edge to it, just enough of a challenge that Nat wondered if they were going to have a problem with the mountaineer. She wished they’d had more time to acclimate as a group and learn each other’s weaknesses and strengths before they braved the hike. But time, as they say, was money.

  “Perhaps the bears and wolves did not get the memo,” Vasily replied. Anubha chuckled under her breath.

  Bears and wolves. Some people speculated that a wild animal had caused Lyudmila’s facial trauma. But what animal removes its victim’s tongue and eyes, leaving the rest of the face intact? Nat shivered. The Mansi certainly hadn’t been hired for his winning personality.

  Igor spoke to Vasily in Russian and both men laughed. Maybe she did need a translator after all. Were they laughing at her? It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  “We should leave at dawn if we’re going to make the first camp before it gets dark,” Igor said, flashing his perfect teeth at her. “It will be a very long day. We need much rest.”

  “That seems like a good idea. Seven, then?” Andrew asked, and Nat didn’t miss the amused look that passed between Igor and Vasily.

  “Five,” Vasily said, staring down her producer as if daring him to argue. Andrew, who often called it a night at five in the morning, swallowed hard.

  “I suggest we have dinner and then turn in. We’ve arranged for a feast in a traditional restaurant nearby.” Nat infused as much cheer into her words as she could, in spite of the feelings of trepidation that crept over her. Had they done the wrong thing, choosing the team based on skill rather than personality? Everyone was so different, their only common ground a love of the outdoors. Though perhaps love wasn’t the right word for it, especially in Vasily’s case.

  As though he’d read her mind, Vasily slung his pack over his shoulder. “I prefer to have a simple meal in my room. I will see you here at five tomorrow.” He left without waiting for a reply.

  “Anyone else?” Nat asked, mentally crossing her fingers. She was concerned Igor would follow suit, but the ski instructor stayed where he was. She was fairly certain it was the promise of an extravagant meal that kept him rooted to the spot rather than their company. “All right, let’s go. Five o’clock is going to come early.”

  To their credit, no one groaned. As the group fell in line, Lana chatted with Anubha and her husband while Igor and Steven shared war stories of mountain life. Still, the Mansi’s attitude clung to Nat like a shroud, and the blast of frigid air that greeted them as they left the hotel certainly didn’t help. As much as she talked tough about how hardy Canadians were, that was all it was—talk. There was a reason she’d relocated to California.

  “Vasily’s sure a charmer, isn’t he?” Andrew kept his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the rest of the group.

  “Thankfully, we didn’t hire him for his charm. If he gets us to Dyatlov Pass and back in one piece, that’s good enough for me.”

  “If?” Her producer had a gift for picking up on the slightest nuance. “Are you having doubts?”

  Nat pulled her muffler higher on her cheeks, eyes tearing in the bitter wind. “We trained for six months, Andrew. Dyatlov’s group did this sort of thing for most of their lives and look what happened to them. Having doubts means I’m of sound mental health. It would be insane not to have doubts.”

  “I guess so. Whatever happened to them—you don’t really think it’s still out there, do you?”

  “I think our biggest challenges are going to be the weather, exertion, and our own paranoia. Whatever killed Igor and his friends, there’s no way it’s still out there sixty years later.”

  She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. The truth was, she had no idea what had happened to the Dyatlov group. What had terrified nine experienced outdoorsmen so much they cut open their tent and ran into the cold in their underwear? Why had Lyudmila’s group survived so much longer and sustained such terrible and strange injuries? Where did the radiation on the bodies come from, and why were the tops of the trees near some of them burned? Something had terrified the skiers, and judging by what had befallen them, rightly so. But what? There were a million theories, all of them ultimately unsatisfying.

  “Fuck, it’s freezing. Couldn’t you have decided to solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle instead?”

  Linking arms with Andrew, Nat smiled, huddling closer to her producer for warmth. “Maybe that should be our reward for surviving this.”

  If you survive it.

  That nasty voice in her head again, the one that kept insisting she’d made a mistake. But of course they’d survive it. Why wouldn’t they? They had the best team, the most sophisticated equipment. Whatever had happened to Lyudmila and her friends back in the 1950s had to have had a rational explanation. Her job was to find it, not to die trying.

  “Vasily gives me the creeps,” Andrew said.

  “He’s not the most amiable fellow, is he? But consider things from his point of view. His way of life is dying out, and to feed his family, he has to drag a group of ill-prepared tourists up one of the region’s most dangerous mountains. If he’s a little grumpy, can’t say I blame him.”

  “Ill-prepared tourists? I take offense to that.”

  “You know what I mean. Just looking at it from his perspective. He has no idea how amazing our team is.”

  “That’s better.”

  As they followed the rest of the group to the restaurant, Nat tried to pinpoint what was bothering her. Was it Vasily’s doom-and-gloom demeanor? The eeriness of following in the footsteps of nine people who’d died horrible, unexplained deaths? Or something more?

  “We’re going to be okay, right?”

  The concern in Andrew’s voice echoed her own thoughts. She squeezed his arm. “Of course we’re going to be okay. We’re going to be sitting in the sun with margaritas, laughing about this, before you know it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Me too.

  * * *

  The Russians who welcomed them to dinner were friendly and cheerful, passing around generous glasses of homemade vodka as soon as their group arrived. Lana looked doubtfully at her share as it slid down the worn wooden table into her hand.

  “I’m not sure we should be drinking. We’re going to need to be on top of our game tomorrow.”

  “A little vodka never hurt anyone,” Igor said, downing his shot with a hearty “Na zdorovie!” He grinned, clinking his empty glass against hers before grabbing another. “It warms the blood. Try it.”

  Nat held her breath as she waited for the Olympian’s response. She wasn’t sure about Russia, but in many countries, refusing a drink was considered an insult.

 
“I guess one wouldn’t hurt.” With a tentative smile, Lana took a small sip that immediately set off a coughing fit. She clutched her chest, her eyes streaming. “Wow, that’s strong.”

  Everyone laughed as Igor pounded her on the back. “You see? It’s good stuff. Puts hair on your chest.”

  “Well now, that’s exactly what I need.” Wiping her eyes, Lana sat beside the Russian, leaving the rest of her glass untouched, but the ice had been broken. Nat could breathe again. From this brief exchange, it appeared their group was going to get along fine.

  She was surprised when Steven took the chair next to hers. He was the one she knew the least about. He’d been a last-minute addition, but Andrew had said the mountaineer’s credentials were so extraordinary he couldn’t refuse. Nat suspected the man’s dark good looks and startlingly blue eyes hadn’t hurt.

  Their hosts refilled the glasses and passed stoneware bowls of soup down the table, along with thick slices of dark rye bread. Nat leaned over the bowl so the steam could caress her face, thawing her still-frozen nose. The soup was a lovely, if surprisingly vivid, shade of magenta. Borscht.

  “Nervous about tomorrow?”

  Steven watched her with an intensity she found unnerving, as if those turquoise eyes of his could see right through her. She considered lying, but decided on a half-truth. “A little. You?”

  “Nah. I survived Everest. What these guys call a Category III is nothing.” He buttered his slice of bread, but his attention remained focused on her. It was everything she could do to keep from squirming. Beautiful men had always made her uncomfortable. Why on earth had she left a gay man in charge of choosing the team?

  “You climbed Everest? What was that like?” She’d never met anyone who’d braved the world’s highest mountain before. Though she didn’t have similar aspirations, people who did fascinated her. There was so much risk, both personally and financially. Climbers had to pay at least thirty-five thousand dollars just to have a go at it, with no guarantee they’d ever make it to the top. And even if the weather cooperated enough to make an attempt at the summit, the mountain was littered with the bodies of those who had failed.