A Mountaineer Who Wants To Kill - Part 5

Aaron crouched over the tiny burner in his tent, aware that he was playing with fire. And poison. Poison had worked once, he thought. He hoped it would work again. This time, Aaron only wanted to cause illness, not death. It was a risky move — so many variables. If he diluted the risin too much, he would miss the opportunity. If he left it too strong, he could kill innocents. And there was no telling what effect the altitude would add.

He was at Camp Two, the busiest and most boring stop on the journey to the roof of the world, the place where dozens of climbers were leaving and arriving every day, ferrying gear up from lower camps, wrestling through thin sleep, willing their bodies to adjust to the air. Most of the time spent here was in tents, trying to sleep, melting snow, and waiting through the slow and unreliable process of acclimatization. It was evening. Through the unzipped vestibule of his tent, Aaron could see a blood red sun dropped into the slot of sky between the walls of the Western Cwm. Above the sun were hundreds of colors as varied as the tents in the little nylon village at Camp Two.

Of the twelve expeditions on the mountain, nine had climbers at Camp Two. Though high and cold and cramped, there was a festive atmosphere. Climbers shouting to one another from tent to tent. Jokes and hopes passed on the whistling wind. Aaron screwed the cap on the thermos of poisoned tea and set out to offer it to two men he had never met.

Trevor Turner had made four successful ascents of Everest, each time with at least two sherpas. While most climbers took only their most trusted aid to the top, Turner felt the need for additional support. That meant three men in one tent, which meant a larger tent, which meant a bullying campaign to find a wide enough spot to pitch it. Aaron forced himself to smile when he called out through the logo-rippled nylon.

"Room service for the Turner Trio?"

There was a chuckle and a grunt and then the tent's vestibule zipped open. Trevor Turner's gold-topped head erupted from the zipper. He looked both confused and pleased at what he saw. Aaron held out two mittened fists, one with a Thermos of tea, the other with a metal flask. "A drink for good luck?"

Aaron had to squat in the entrance of the tent, not able to crowd in past the vestibule. Turner greeted him with an energetic but furtive smile. Said it was good to see him on the mountain again. Aaron did his best to create a jovial reunion. He passed the Thermos to one of the sherpas, met his eyes, smiled, and gave a little bow with his shoulders. Then he unscrewed the cap on the flask and handed it to Turner, "Tea for the buddhists. Something stronger for us."

Aaron asked about Turner's clients — a middle-aged couple who were both here for the first time and had almost zero qualifications for their attempt save for the two that meant the most to Turner — their large bank account and their New Zealand citizenship. They were in the tent next door, probably asleep. Turner talked about the weather like he had planned it. They talked about rugby because Turner must always talk about rugby. They talked about Dawa Lob-sang and Prenesh Ghode. In less than fifteen minutes both the Thermos and the flask were empty and handed back to Aaron. He pocketed them and slipped on his mittens.

"Aaron," Turner said. "It was good of you to stop by. I should have reached out more since since your dad … I should have checked on you."

Aaron tried to smile. "I thought you and Dad had a falling out."

Turner shifted uneasily on his sleeping bag. "I guess we disagreed, but there's no use holding on to that now."

"About what?"

"It's not important."

"It might be to me. What did you disagree about?"

Turner shifted again and studied Aaron's face. He wasn't going to escape the question so he sighed and said, "Business. I climb for business. He climbed for love. He wanted to keep the mountain for people like himself."

"You mean climbers?"

"Everyone on the mountain is a climber, Aaron."

"The couple next door? They're climbers? He's a surgeon, right?"

"He's camping at sixty-one hundred meters; he's a climber."

"I see. And you and dad fought over that?"

"I'm sorry to say we fought on the morning he passed."

Aaron gathered his feet under him and reached for the zipper. He turned to the sherpas with a smile. "I hope that keeps you warm tonight," he said. "Big day starts in a few hours."

Both sherpas smiled, mute.

"He was a good man and a great climber," Turner said, his tone trying to rescue something.

"Yes, he was."