The Mighty Quinns: Malcolm

“Dad?” Their father had died twenty years ago this spring, somewhere near the summit of Mt. Everest. Mal had been ten, the twins seven and Dana only five.

His sister nodded, fighting back tears. “They found his body.”

Mal gasped. “When?”

“Three weeks ago. Gary Branbauer’s expedition. The snow cover has been light this year and as they were descending, they noticed a flash of color in the snow. It was him.”

“How do they know?” Mal asked.

“They took a photo and got a GPS bearing. Roger Innis confirmed it was the right location and gear. The news is out and the media has been calling. It’s been crazy.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” He and Dana had been in contact by satellite phone at least four or five times over the past three weeks. And he’d been a simple email away for the past two days.

“I decided to wait until you got home. I haven’t said anything to Ryan and Rogan either, although considering how the news is spreading, they’ll probably both hear about it before I can tell them in person.”

“Mum,” Mal said. “She knows?”

Dana nodded. “She’s a little upset over all the attention. They’ve been calling and wanting to talk to her, but so far she’s refused to comment. She’s coming to stay with me for the weekend.”

The media attention made sense. Maxwell Quinn had been one of the most renowned climbers of his generation and, in the early ’90s, only one of a handful of men who had completed the Seven Summits in less than a year. Max’s partner, Roger Innis, had used the media coverage after Max’s death to his advantage, claiming that Max had died trying to rescue a client. With all the publicity, Outbound Adventure had suddenly become a high-profile guiding company.

But because of a badly written business agreement, Lydie Quinn had been left with virtually nothing. All the business assets went to Innis, and though Max was supposed to have had a life insurance policy through the company, Innis had stopped paying the premiums a few months before the Everest expedition. So Lydie had been forced to sell their little house in Rotorua and move the family back to Auckland, where they’d lived with Mal’s grandparents.

Though they’d moved away from their childhood home, Max Quinn’s sons couldn’t forget his legacy. So they’d started their own adventure guiding business, the name a nod to their father—Maximum Adrenaline. In deference to their mother, they refused to return to Everest, but with only two eight-thousand-foot expeditions on their trip list, it had been hard to compete with Innis’s company.

The family’s relationship with Roger Innis became almost hostile when they became competitors, with Outbound Adventure doing all it could to win the battle for clients and reputation.

But Innis took chances, sometimes putting his clients at risk in order to get them to the top of a mountain. The Quinns were known to err on the side of caution, and for climbers who paid dearly to get to the summit, this was not always a popular choice. Nor was it flashy enough to get them the media coverage they needed to expand their business.

But they were getting it now, weren’t they?

Mal sat down on the front steps and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Well, you’d better come up with something. We’re going to have to make a statement to the media at some point. I didn’t think it was my place, and Mum just refuses to talk about it.”

“All right. The next person who calls, have them ring my mobile and I’ll make a statement.”

“There’s something else,” she murmured.

“Please tell me the business is bankrupt or my house has burned to the ground. I’d be much more equipped to cope.”

“Innis announced that he’s going to mount an expedition to recover Dad’s effects.”

Mal felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach, his breath leaving him. “What the hell? Where does he get off? It’s his fault Dad is dead. Does he think he can make up for that by rescuing him now? He should have done his job twenty years ago.”

There had been whispers all those years ago, comments from other climbers about Innis’s reckless disregard for his partner’s safety. They’d said he’d made decisions that had directly contributed to Max Quinn’s death. But those had only been rumors; no one knew the real story except for Roger Innis and Mal’s father—and neither one of them was talking.

Dana wrapped her arm around Mal’s and leaned against him. “It’s just talk,” she said. “Publicity. You know how he is—he’ll use anything to get his business in the news. Just last month he had the cover story in High Adventure magazine for his Antarctica expedition.”

“The cover?” Mal cursed. “How the hell does he manage that?” Mal had been trying to get a feature in High Adventure for years. Mal was convinced the glossy American magazine was key to capturing more American clientele. “I suppose he’s hoping for another cover with this harebrained scheme of his. The bludger.”

“He can’t mount a trip to Everest until at least next spring, and even then, he’d have to get permits and shuffle his clients around. By then all the interest will have died down and—”

“He wants Dad’s journal,” Mal muttered. “He’s well aware Dad kept it in his climbing suit and he’s afraid of what might be written there. Innis has worked all these years to rebuild his reputation. He’s not going to let it all fall apart now.”

The sound of a phone ringing echoed from the office and Dana stood up. “Probably another reporter.”

“Do you want me to handle it?” Mal asked.

“No. You’re just home. You deserve a chance to relax a bit. I’ll tell them what I’ve been saying for three weeks. No comment. Although that seems to make them even more determined to get a quote.” She paused. “You know, maybe we should give an interview. All of us, Mum, too. The publicity couldn’t hurt. We could beat Innis at his own game.”

“Maybe,” he murmured.

“And High Adventure magazine has rung three times in the past few days. I told the girl you’d be back tomorrow. Maybe you should talk to her.”

A feature article about their father and the Quinn family business might finally bring them out of the shadow of Roger Innis. Especially if they mounted their own expedition. Maybe it was time they learned the truth about that week on Everest.

But did he really want to know? It wouldn’t change anything. His father would still be dead and he’d force his mother to relive the tragedy all over again. And he’d promised her that he and his brothers would never climb Everest. There were so many reasons not to go.

Yet Mal couldn’t help but wonder if learning the truth—his father’s truth—might not put to rest some of the pain he and his family had suffered. Could the answers be found in his father’s journal? Had he written his farewells there before he died on the mountain? There were so many unanswered questions.

“I’m going to go see Mum,” Mal said, pushing to his feet. “And then I’m going home to grab a shower and a drink, and maybe I’ll get myself a haircut.”

“What about the woman?” Dana asked with a wry smile.

“That might have to wait,” he murmured.

Mal gave Duff a rough pet and the dog trotted beside him to the Range Rover. “You want me to take him?”

“No, I’ll keep him.”

He waved at his sister, Duffy at her side, as he drove out to the main road. Life had always been pretty uncomplicated for Mal and he liked it that way. But the reality of their business problems was beginning to weigh on him. There was never extra money; he could barely afford to make rent from month to month. When finances were tight, he bought new equipment instead of food and ate expired rations from their expedition stockpile.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed the wad of cash that he had left over from the client tips he and the other guides had divided amongst themselves. He’d take enough for a single night out. The rest would have to go to pay the bills.

“I’d better make it a bloody good night,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of living like a damn monk.”

* * *

“HEY, BILLY FINSTER! Set me up with a pint and make it quick. I’ve got myself a powerful thirst!”

The shout echoed through the empty pub and Amy Engalls looked up from her laptop at the tall, lanky man who strode up to the bar. His hair was shaggy and he wore a well-worn T-shirt and faded jeans. The cap on his head was turned backward and his eyes were hidden by a pair of bright blue sunglasses.

He glanced around and his eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Amy grabbed a quick breath and held it. Was this Malcolm Quinn? He wasn’t due back until tomorrow, but she’d studied the photos and it could be him. Word around town was that he and his brothers hung out at Brawley’s Pub near his place on the beach. So she’d decided to stake it out. When he turned away, she quickly pulled a file folder from her bag and searched for a reference.

Her breath slowly escaped as she stared down at the handsome face in the photo, then compared it to the profile of the man at the bar.

An instant later, the barkeeper burst through the swinging kitchen door and confirmed her suspicions. “Mal Quinn, you old dog. I was wonderin’ when you’d roll back in. Where was it you were?”