Out Of The Rubble

---

Out Of The Rubble - book excerpt

Chapter 1

April 25, 2015 — Kathmandu, Nepal

It’s a bright February morning as Mick weaves his rental car through snarled traffic on Ring Road. Beside him is Alan Forrester, High Trails’ new expedition coordinator. They’ve just flown in from Pokhara for a logistics meeting with their new employee, Lincoln Webber and High Trails’ Everest Base Camp guide, Binod Thapa. As Mick drives past the incessant beeping of darting vehicles, he glances at Alan, who’s gawking out the window at the busy street lined with mobs of Nepalis. Sidewalk cafes put out pungent garlic and curry aromas, and a chorus of squawking radios blare Nepali music.

Mick looks at his watch, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Alan clutch his armrest. It’s Alan’s first tour of Nepal, and from the look of it, he’s having a hard time getting his legs under him. “You’ll get used to it,” Mick says. “When we get there, we’ll head in for the meeting, then get our room after. You hungry?”

“I could eat, I suppose,” Alan says as they continue through the urban sprawl.

It’s 7:35 a.m. Barring a major traffic jam, they’ll arrive at the Crown Plaza Hotel for their meeting at 8:00. They’re only a few minutes late. Not bad, considering their flight ran thirty minutes behind. He steers around a wheezing bus, zips down the road of failing macadam, and ten minutes later, he’s turning onto Swayamblu Circle Road, heading for the hotel. “So, looking forward to getting up in the mountains?”

“I am,” Alan says. He’s quiet a moment and awkward silence permeates the space between them. Finally, he says, “I thought I knew traffic. But this….” He shakes his head.

“Yeah, it’s a bit crazy,” Mick answers as the hotel comes into view. He wends his way around a stopped car in the middle of the street. “You get used to it.”

“I suppose,” Alan says, but there’s no conviction in his tone.

Mick speeds up and a minute later, they’re turning into a drive flanking the five-story hotel. As he passes fragrant raised beds of edelweiss, anemones, and poppies, he hunts for a place to park. Binod’s motorbike is already here, parked in the large sweeping lot around the portico. Mick cocks a brow. Binod actually made it here ahead of him.

Five minutes later they’re striding down the sidewalk to the front doors. The Plaza’s sweeping masonry walls, prominent red metal roofs, and blue-tinted windows reflect the standard of luxury for Kathmandu’s tourists. It’s also the unofficial launching point for High Trails’ Everest expeditions, not to mention that it’s co-managed by Palisha Kc. She’s a tiny, compact woman with vibrant brown eyes and a fetching smile. If there were any woman he could ever settle down with, it would be her. But she comes from a traditional Nepali family who frowns on taking up with foreigners. The fact that she’s a widow, who by custom should be home and out of sight, only makes things worse. It leaves him in a heart-rending limbo of bottled-up love that should never be acted upon.

He follows Alan into the bright, airy interior and gestures to the broad hallway left of the reception desk. But his gaze strays to the office door behind the desk. It’s open, but she’s not inside. They cross a pale-blue oriental carpet and turn down the hall, passing muted tan walls. A coffered ceiling with hanging lights of polished brass extends down the corridor. The murmuring of a sanxian guitar, piped in from somewhere above, kisses his ears. At the end of the hall, an alcove leads to the hotel café. They stride past a couple of guests and go in. Binod and Lincoln Webber are sitting at a table by a window. They look up as he walks toward them.

“Hey, Binod,” Mick says, glancing at his watch. “You’re early. What the hell? Gonna turn into a regular American if you keep this up.” He turns to Alan, explaining the concept of Nepali standard time, then introduces himself to Lincoln.

Lincoln pushes back from the table along with Binod and stands. The new American recruit Binod has spoken for is a tall redhead with a short-cropped beard and mustache. Above his deep blue eyes is a faint sickle-shaped scar that dives into a mop of curly hair. Under the collar of Lincoln’s white cotton tapālan is a hint of a tattoo. Lincoln puts his hand out, and judging from his grip, Mick guesses he works out.

They all sit and pull menus toward them as a waiter comes around with a carafe of tea. As the man pours for them, he looks to Binod first. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says.

Mick knits his brow. “You? Not hungry? You sick or something?” He reaches across the table toward Binod. “Give me your wrist. I want to check for a pulse.”

Binod looks at him as if he’s not sure what to say. Mick grins and turns to Alan. “My friend has a bottomless stomach. Once, when we were at a teahouse on the Circuit, I think it was Jomsom…Jomsom, right, Binod?”

They both know where this is going. It’s a joke between them he tells whenever he has a chance. Binod rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mick says. “Anyway, we just got off a fourteen-hour hike and you know meals on the Circuit, not a lot on the plate, so we’re pretty hungry. Now I can put away my fair share, but Binod, he keeps going after I’m done. After his fifth helping, the owner, who’s been watching his profits disappear, comes to our table and tells Binod if he makes that his last trip, our meal’s on the house.”

“I think you mistaken, Mick-ji. That was you,” Binod says with a lilt in his voice.

Lincoln sits back, chuckling. Alan just grins. After the laughter settles down, Lincoln tags Binod on the arm. “You’ve been holding out on me, Bud.”

Binod turns to Lincoln with a quizzical look on his face. “Holding out?”

“Yeah, keeping secrets,” Lincoln says as the waiter stands by, waiting patiently.

Mick orders a plate of fried potatoes and onions, a stack of cakes with honey, and a double helping of toast. Lincoln, who’s studying his menu, points to the selection of appetizers on the first page. “The Dehli Chaat—is made with dahi vada or dahi bhalla?” he asks in Nepali.

“Dahi bhalla,” the waiter answers.

Lincoln nods. “Okay. I take order of that. Extra hot chili, lots onions. Plain yogurt.”

The waiter turns to Alan, who takes a last look at his menu. Frowning, he points to a picture of a breakfast entree of porridge, cakes, and eggs. “I’ll have that.” He passes the menu to the waiter, then suddenly puts his hand up. “You have toast and marmalade here?”

The waiter stares back, confused. “Marmalade?”

“Yes,” Alan says. “It’s like jam. Fruit preserves with peels.”

The waiter glances at Mick with a hopeful look for help.

“Phal sanrakshit karata hai,” Mick says.

The waiter nods, then beams back at Alan. “Oh, yes, we have.”

Alan smiles. “Good. I’ll have another cup of whatever you’re calling tea,” he adds, raising his mug.

After the waiter leaves, Mick clears his throat, claps his hands, and eyes Lincoln. “Okay, you’re probably wondering why we’re not at a High Trails office, right?”

“Binod filled me in; something about liking to keep things light and friendly,” Lincoln says, breaking back into English. He sits back with one arm on the table, panning the room.

Mick considers the American a moment. The guy is watchful, and there’s a guarded air about him, as if he’s hiding something. But Binod is vouching for him, and it doesn’t hurt the guy’s adoctor. Could come in handy down the road, not to mention he has an Ama Dablam summit under his belt. The guy knows his stuff. Finally, he says, “So, tell me a little about yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” Lincoln says, then shrugs and takes a sip of tea. “When I lived in the States, I served in a fire department as a paramedic for a couple years, then went and got a degree in emergency medicine. Bounced around after that, working ERs until a friend of mine talked me into a bit of alpine climbing. Thought he was nuts ’til I did it. Two years later, we landed here.”

“I assume you went for Everest?” Alan says.

Lincoln sets his mug on the table, absently turns it around, and looks off. “That was the plan. Never got to it, though.”

“That’s too bad,” Alan says. “What happened?”

“Bunch of things.”

“So Ama Dablam was a training summit?” Mick asks.

Lincoln shrugs as the waiter brings more tea. “Sort of.”

When Mick looks up, he sees Palisha coming behind the waiter with their order. His heart thumps. “Namaste, Polly! How are you?” he says. He drinks in her beaming smile, the soft crinkles around her large brown eyes, and the slight tilt of her regal tan face. Her thick jet hair is pulled back with a floral pin, and a subtle scent of jasmine wafts around her.

“Namaste, Mick,” she says. She holds him in a knowing gaze before setting the platter of food on the table beside them.

For the first time, he notices the flower-print satin blouse hanging off her shoulders. The top button is undone and a thin gold necklace peeks out from underneath. “I looked for you when I came in, but you weren’t in your office.”

“No, I was busy in the kitchen,” she says. Her gaze strays past him. “Namaste. Hello, Binod. How are you?”

“I am very good, thank you,” he says, nodding politely. “And how are you?”

“I am very good also,” she replies, then looks to Alan and Lincoln. “Namaste, good morning.”

“Morning,” Lincoln and Alan say in unison. Lincoln adds, “Something smells good.”

“I hope so!” Palisha says, favoring them with a charming smile. “So, you are all staying with us?”

“Just Alan and myself,” Mick says. He picks up his mug and sips, then eyes Alan and Lincoln. “Palisha here co-manages the hotel. She’s the best hostess in all of Nepal, isn’t that right, Binod?”

“Oh, yes,” Binod says, flashing a broad grin.

Palisha waves off the compliment. “Do not listen to them. They are just looking for extras,” she says to Lincoln and Alan, then turns to the platter on the table beside her. She picks up the bowl of porridge. “So, who gets this?”

“That would be me,” Alan says, reaching to take the bowl from her.

“And the Dehli Chaat is mine,” Lincoln puts in.

Palisha passes their plates out as Mick unwraps his silverware. When everyone is served, she turns to him. “Can we talk over there a minute?”

“Sure.” He gets up and follows her out of earshot. “What’s up?”

“So, we will have dinner tonight, yes?”

“Of course!” He wonders why she has to ask.

“Good.” She peers around him, then leans in close, and in Nepali, whispers, “I have a gift for you that I think you’ll like.”

When she pulls back with an innocent smile, his body fizzes. The thought of sitting on the couch talking all snuggled up sends a wave of anticipation rushing through him. He tries to control himself, but it’s not easy. “Really?”

She nods. The way she’s looking at him is maddening.

“What time?”

She hesitates, looks around them again, then turns back and says, “Six, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Oh, one thing. My sink is clogged, so maybe you can fix it for me sometime this afternoon?”

“I’ll need tools.”

“No problem,” she says, slipping her key into his hand. “Go see Rajan downstairs. He will give you what you need.”

“I’ll head over right after we’re done here.”

“Okay, put your bags at the reception desk and I will have them taken up.” She backs away and waves to the rest of them. “Okay, I leave you to your meeting now.”

After she leaves, Mick digs into his breakfast. But he feels Lincoln’s furtive gaze flick at him from time to time. At length, he sits back and wipes his mouth. “So, Lincoln, where were we?”

”Ama Dablam,” Alan puts in. “What was that like? I heard it’s quite a climb.”

Lincoln takes a bite, swallows, and shrugs. “It wasn’t easy.”

Alan nods as he pours honey on his porridge. “When did you do it?”

Mick watches Lincoln’s face tighten and his gaze go inward. There’s more to this man than what I’ve been told.

Lincoln takes a bite, wipes his mouth, and says curtly, “2011.”

I don’t remember reading that in the resume. “You were on the mountain in 2011?”

Lincoln looks away, and it’s clear he isn’t comfortable with the direction this conversation is going.

Alan wrinkles his brow and sets his spoon down. “I heard there was a storm that year?”

Lincoln sips his tea. “Yup.”

Mick sits back, realizing the man was on the mountain when the storm hit. Shit. I wonder….

“Christ! That must’ve been a hell of a ride,” Alan says.

Lincoln’s expression darkens as he takes another sip of tea. “It was.”

Alan leans forward as Mick nudges the Brit’s leg under the table to give him a hint to shut up, but Alan pushes on. “Where were you at the time?”

Lincoln stiffens and sets his mug down. “Camp 3.”

Binod turns to Mick, and there’s an anxious look on the Nepali’s face.

Suddenly the air goes out of the room. It takes but a second for Mick to add things up. While most people know the story of Patterson, Kincaid, and Madden on Everest, not many know about the four men on Ama Dablam who were caught in the storm. One of them fell to his death and was more than likely a friend to the man across the table.

Alan’s glance sweeps over them as if he’s being left out on a secret. “What?”

Lincoln clears his throat and stares coldly at Alan. “Not what! Who! People died, okay? Can we please move on?”

“Yes, let’s,” says Mick. “We have a lot to cover for the upcoming season and next year, not to mention our next group, which will be here next week.”

***

After the meeting breaks up, Mick collects a pipe wrench, a plumbing snake, pipe dope, and a pair of pliers (probably more than he needs) from Rajan and heads to Palisha’s apartment. It’s just outside the old Chamati neighborhood near the Bishnumati River. As he drives, his thoughts fixate on the evening ahead and where things might lead. What started out five years ago as a casual friendship has moved into new territory and he’s unsure where it will go.

He turns onto Museum Marg and drives into the dense residential mishmash of two- and three-story masonry. There are no sidewalks here, just a string of railroad timber curbs laid down in front of the houses. Motorbikes weave back and forth ahead, beep-beeping incessantly in the stop-and-go mid-morning traffic. It’s heading toward noon and people are swarming in and out of houses or gathering in groups on street corners. The ubiquitous tang of the muddy river downwind mingles with the smoke of his cigar and the pungent odor trailing off the garbage truck ahead. He tosses his cigar in his coffee cup and rolls the window up, shutting out the stink.

Fifteen minutes later, the residential sprawl is behind him and he’s at a T- intersection, making a right. He follows the snaking brown river a half kilometer before making another right into the driveway of Riverside Apartments. The four-story L-shaped masonry and concrete building, built shortly after the 1934 quake, sits back from the road, flanked by a row of acacia and rhododendron. A Tibetan Cherry stands out front on a sheared lawn, its spindled and crooked branches laden with white blossoms. Hugging the front entrance is a bed of purple asters.

He parks out front. The lot is nearly empty this time of day; most of the tenants are at work. Grabbing his bag of tools, he hoofs it to the front door under a sun playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. The narrow lobby welcomes him into cool, deep shadows. As he pushes the call button for the elevator, he catches a whiff of ginger and faint Nepali music drifting down the hall. The elevator dings, and the door slides back. It’s a tight fit inside the claustrophobic car, but he endures it rather than climb the two flights of creaky metal stairs to the third floor.

Palisha’s apartment is to the left down the hall. He pulls her key out, walks to her door, and enters, taking in the subtle floral fragrance saturating the sunlit room. Shucking his boots at the door, he heads into her tiny galley kitchen with his tools. A plunger stands on the floor next to the sink cabinet and a bottle of dish soap and a dirty breakfast bowl, spoon, and cup sit by the sink above. He takes a look at the brown water lingering in the basin, considers a plan of action, and pulls the snake out, but first he needs to deal with the copious amount of tea he put down at his meeting.

As he unzips in the tiny bathroom off the kitchen next to the bedroom, he notices a clear plastic bottle on the vanity. It’s none of his business, but when he’s done, he picks it up and reads the label.

LVL Personal Lubricant.

He’s perplexed for a moment, but then it hits him. Of course she would. Men aren’t the only ones who think such things. He smiles, wondering if she thinks of him when she uses it. It’s an image he’s never considered before, and one he’s quite sure he won’t forget.

He should feel guilty for having such thoughts, for invading her intimate life, but he’s not a monk and the bottle was left out in plain sight, he tells himself. Setting it down, he heads back to the kitchen to take care of the stubborn drain. After five minutes of fighting with the snake, he decides the trap has to be taken apart, but for that he’ll need something to collect water in. He rummages around in the surrounding cabinets for a large pot, then gets back on the floor, digging sludge out of the U-shaped pipe with his finger. When he feels a faint tremor run through the building, he frowns and stops what he’s doing. Then another tremor comes, more like a jolt this time.

He jerks up, banging his head on the cabinet frame. The floor is shaking underneath him now. For a second he freezes, then he’s on his feet running to the living room. The walls are listing back and forth, the hanging tapestry fluttering wildly. A zigzagging crack is running down the exterior wall, and an ominous groan follows. The window shatters and a shower of glass bursts into the room.

Get out!

Stumbling into the hall, he races to the stairwell behind another tenant. The treads shift back and forth like a sieve sifting flour as he runs down. Dust and chunks of plaster rain from the ceiling. Another powerful jolt reels him sideways, throwing him into the railing. The Nepali in front of him tumbles down the stairs, hitting the landing with a thunk. Twenty feet below, the first floor yawns up at him. His breath catches. Something hurts. Coughing, he scrambles down into the mounting gray haze flooding the shaft. A loud bang jolts the floor above. The twisting steel staircase shivers below. Another explosion of shattering glass, and then a loud pop, pop, pop. Gripping the rail, he lurches ahead, descending the rocking treads to the landing. The fallen Nepali is struggling to his hands and knees. He pulls him up, sees a deep gash splitting the man’s brow. A stream of blood is running from it down the side of the Nepali’s narrow face. Draping the man’s arm over his shoulder, he darts ahead. Then another jolt rams the building, knocking him backward onto the stair. When he looks up, the exterior wall before him is peeling away. Sunlight pours in, revealing a rolling landscape outside. Thick dirty clouds blanket the Chamati neighborhood beyond. Birds are arcing wildly across the sky above it.

A voice in his head yells, Go, go, go! He pulls himself and the Nepali up. The man is dazed, dead weight under his arm as he rushes headlong down the faltering stairs, socked feet slipping and sliding. Then all at once, he’s outside, stumbling ahead breathlessly with the Nepali on the seesawing macadam. How he got here, he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t care to think about it. Just get as far as he can into open space, away from the crumbling building.

People ahead are running every which way, calling out for each other, crying, screaming. Children are bawling. Then a booming thump hits the ground behind him, lifting his feet and sending him and the Nepali crashing to the ground. He half expects his life to end. But when the deathblow doesn’t come, he closes his eyes. Catching his breath, he finally rolls over, clambers to his hands and knees, and sucks another gulp of air into his burning lungs. Wiping his brow, he looks back. The end of the building is shorn off into a towering mishmash of brick and broken concrete. Underneath it somewhere is his rental car. As he stares at the destruction, he suddenly realizes the ground is still.

His heart thuds, and he waits for another jolt. When it doesn’t come, he sighs, and for the first time, realizes how fortunate he is. He glances at the Nepali beside him. The man is on his side panting and pushing himself up with one hand planted on the pavement. A lackluster gaze clouds the man’s dark brown eyes. His tan face and short black hair are chalked with gritty white dust and streaked with blood and sweat.

Mick waves a hand. “Lie back down,” he says in Nepali. “It’s okay.” With an effort, he gets up and sweeps his gaze over the eerie, silent world, absorbing the wreckage and the ruined land around him. On the other side of the river, a thick dirty haze hangs over the city, and here and there, plumes of smoke rise into a cloudless pale sky. To his right, the acacia and rhododendron are partially uprooted, listing every which way at sharp angles. The Tibetan Cherry out front is lying on its side, half-buried in rubble. Behind him, voices are coming on. He turns to see several Nepali men rushing up to the man he brought out from the building.

One of them steps beside him, reaches out, and taps him on the arm, then averts his gaze downward. “You bleeding,” he says in stilted English.

Mick looks down and sees a broad wedge of wicked glass poking through a spreading dark red stain on the side of his shirt. Shit, that’s not good. He looks back up at the Nepali, whose concerned face is now wavering in and out of focus, and as the world spins, Palisha’s face flashes before him.