by Kathy Reichs
“Yeah.” Distracted.
“It’s Dr. Brennan.”
“What?” I could hear a lot of commotion in the background. Kids. A whistle. A dull echo that sounded like a train.
I repeated myself, louder.
“Sorry. I’m at my other glamorous job.” James barked an admonition to someone named Brian. “At the Whitewater Center.” I assumed he meant the U.S. National Whitewater Center, a state-of-the-art kayak and rafting facility on the outskirts of Charlotte.
“You’re into kayaking?”
“They also have climbing and bouldering tours. I— Hey! Ease back!”
“I have a few quick questions….” I began, but he cut me off.
“Put it down….Now!” To me: “I can’t talk in this chaos, and there’s another busload of third graders showing up any minute. Can we do this after I clock out?”
Damn. “Sure.”
He hesitated. “Actually, I caught a ride with another instructor today and she had to split to collect a sick kid. Any chance you could pick me up?”
Was he serious? The place was halfway to Mount Holly. Still, I wanted information. Nothing more to do here. Favor curries favor, blah, blah, blah.
“What time?”
“I’m done at eight. Drive around to the employee gate in back. It’s never locked.”
Three beeps indicated he’d disconnected.
The rest of the day passed at the speed of continental drift. I ran a few errands. Did some paperwork. But my mind kept seeing fractures, prints, mummified tissue. Kept looping through theories. It was a relief to finally steer my Mazda into the remnants of rush-hour traffic at seven o’clock.
Forty-five minutes after setting off, I was at the U.S. National Whitewater Center. I parked as instructed and followed a sign pointing out the employee entrance. I’d almost reached the gate when my phone rang. Sang.
“Temperance Brennan.”
“Dr. Brennan? It’s Paola Rossi.”
Total blank. “Excuse me?”
“At the Centro de Visitantes del Parque Provincial Aconcagua.”
“Of course, Señora Rossi. I’m sorry. The connection is poor.”
“I found the name you wanted.”
“That’s so kind of you.” I began digging one-handed in my shoulder bag, looking for paper and pen. Stopped when Rossi spoke again.
“Can you repeat that?” Stunned.
Slowly and clearly she restated the name. “Damon James. He was the other climber ascending Aconcagua’s Direct Polish Glacier route on December thirtieth. Mr. James listed his place of residence as Charlotte, North Carolina, United States.”
Pulse humming, I thanked Rossi and disconnected. Around me, dusk was fast yielding to night. The lot held few vehicles. I heard no voices, no sounds of activity.
In my brain, disparate facts were snapping into place. Damon James was Brighton Hallis’s business partner. Snap. Damon James had talked to Viviana Fuentes on Everest. Snap. Damon James had been on Aconcagua.
I dialed Slidell. Got voicemail. Left a message explaining my whereabouts and asking for a call back.
More snapping. This time questions.
Was James dirty? Had he and Hallis acted together to embezzle from Bright Ascents? Had he killed Viviana Fuentes on Everest? Why? To help Hallis switch identities? Were James and Hallis lovers? Did they have blood money stashed in some secret offshore account? Had James killed Brighton Hallis on Aconcagua? Why?
A woman in jeans and a bright green U.S. NATIONAL WHITEWATER CENTER tee approached. Smiling warmly, she held the gate open for me. I hesitated.
Jesus, Brennan. The slalom team trained for the freaking Olympics here. The place is probably crammed with people. Go. Find the creep.
“Thanks.” I passed through the gate.
While crossing the grounds, I reviewed what I knew about the center. What I’d learned online before heading out. I’d never visited.
Four hundred acres, adjacent to the Catawba River. Nonprofit. Training facility for the serious athlete. Recreational facility for the not-so-serious. Rafting, kayaking, canoeing, zip-lining, hiking, mountain biking, and, apparently, rock climbing.
I entered to the right of the main building. Registration, guest services, rentals, conference center, snack bar, gift shop. A few women sat outside under umbrellas at iron tables. Soccer mom types—Lululemon yoga wear, Jack Rogers sandals, Tory Burch shades. They played on iPhones, bored, waiting for progeny.
Beyond the building, a steady flow of people were exiting the main gate toward the general parking lot. A sign on an exterior wall provided two important facts. The last “put-in” was at 7 P.M. Closure was at 8 P.M.
I entered guest services and asked for Damon James. Was directed outside, to a towering faux-stone V jutting skyward beside the Upper Pond. James was at the base, coiling ropes into a box. He straightened on hearing my footsteps, turned. Big surprise. Whitewater Center tee with the sleeves razored off. The guy was predictable.
“Good timing.” James flashed the movie star grin. “Let’s walk and talk. I have to do a sweep. Make sure no kids are hiding out.”
Though James was relaxed, I felt my pulse pumping hard. I followed him to a paved path skimming along the bank of the simulated river. Signs warned walkers to stay five feet back from the water’s edge. Zip lines threw looping shadows from overhead.
James walked so quickly I had to lengthen my stride to keep up. Now and then we passed a late straggler heading for the exit.
To hide my nervousness, perhaps my suspicions, I tried casual conversation. “Is the circuit a complete loop?” Indicating the river. Not really caring.
He glanced at me, then nodded. “The water goes around two islands and forms multiple channels, but basically it’s a big circle.” He pointed to a landmass on our left. “That’s Belmont Abbey Island. It’s got a music venue and beer garden. Hawk Island’s on the other side of Lower Pond. You’ll see. It’s wilder, has the obstacle and ropes courses.”
“Mm.”
“Tough crowd.” James wagged his head. “How about this? You’re looking at the largest and most complex recirculating artificial whitewater river on the planet.”
“Impressive. And you teach here?”
“Seasonally. Rocks only.”
We curved past tents on our right and a music pavilion on our left to a point where the wide Lower Pond stretched between us and the main center opposite. Pines towered above our heads and needles carpeted the ground at our feet. We were now the only people on the trail. Now or never.
“Elon Gass said you drew no salary from Bright Ascents.”
James did a mock double take. “Well, well. I’m guessing the little lady didn’t come out here for the pleasure of my company. I’m wounded.”
“Were you paid?” asked the little lady.
James stared for so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he surprised me. “I was supposed to get a salary. Didn’t happen. I’m not really a delayed gratification kind of guy, but Brighton had a way of getting people to do what she wanted.”
“The fund had a million bucks. Why didn’t she pay you?”
“Guess we can’t ask her.”
“Did you know the police were investigating Brighton for fraud?”
“Not until your cop pal called me yesterday.”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Brighton?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Were you together?”
“No. Nor were we thieves.” Too pat.
Before I could poke at that, James spun and strode off at a pace even faster than earlier.
Momentary hesitation. Follow? Every neuron in my brain screamed no. I ignored them.
The river narrowed. The water now whirled and frothed in furious hydraulics. The sound was deafening.
“Tell me about Viviana Fuentes?” I shouted to be heard.
James wheeled on me, face a tight mask. “Let’s not play games. What is it you really want
to know?”
“What happened to Brighton Hallis?”
“What happened to Brighton Hallis? She got greedy, stole a million bucks, and left me holding the bag.”
I said nothing.
“Shit was going to hit the fan after Everest.” Spit so loud his neck muscles bulged taught. “And I was the chump about to be flattened by the Hallis Express.”
“So you couldn’t allow her to come down.” My heart was going ninety. I knew I should back off, but couldn’t stop myself. “With Brighton dead the investigation would go away.”
James’s chin hiked up, sending shadows slicing across his face. It was dark now, but a crescent moon was hanging above the tree line. And scattered floodlights kept the grounds from total blackness. When he spoke again his voice was ice. “When Brighton died on Everest, I had no idea that money was missing.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I have an alibi, sweetheart. I was nowhere near Brighton when she bought it.”
Every nerve tingling, I went for the kill. “Except Brighton didn’t die on Everest. Did she?”
James regarded me, eyes glistening cool and green in the moonlight. Then, he startled me by chuckling. “You are fucking crazy.”
“You knew of Brighton’s plan to disappear. You were in on it from the start.”
He circled an index finger at his temple. “Cra-zy.”
“Tell me your version of events.”
James crossed his arms. Spread his feet. “Imagine my astonishment when I spotted my former business partner, supposedly dead, coming out of the Aconcagua permit office in Mendoza, Argentina. Brighton Hallis, alive as a nasty rumor.”
“What did she say?”
“She never saw me.”
“You want me to believe that you both just happened to be in Argentina at the exact same place on the exact same day. Totally by coincidence.”
“No. We’d planned the trip together.”
“So—”
A chop of his hand cut off my question. “Before Everest. We’d scheduled our outings years in advance. After, when everything went sideways and no one was climbing, the trips were canceled. But Aconcagua fell on the anniversary of Sterling Hallis’s death. For some fucked-up stick-it-to-myself reason I decided to make a pilgrimage in honor of Bright.”
James’s words were tumbling with fury now, carrying with them a note of madness.
“Go on.”
“When Bright was gone, I went into the office and got the same permit she had. I knew her plan. I’d written the bastard. I trailed her every step, staying close behind, until I lost the benefit of crowd cover at Camp One. She spotted me. Son of a bitch, you should’ve seen her face. Pure terror.”
“Continue.” As unobtrusively as possible, I inched back a step. Why hadn’t Slidell returned my call? Or had he? I couldn’t risk checking my phone.
“The dumb bitch confessed everything. Her plan was to disappear in the icefall right above Everest base camp. The world would think she’d fallen into a crevasse when in fact she’d slipped down the trail and away to a beach in Goa or Rio.”
“That’s why she switched the Everest climb from guided to unguided.”
“Made it easier to ditch me holding the bag.”
“What about Viviana Fuentes?”
“Bad luck for Viviana, wrong place, wrong time. But that was pretty much Brighton. One lucky break after another.”
Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted. I forced myself not to jump. “So it was a crime of opportunity?”
“I honestly don’t know. Bright said it was. The resemblance between them was spooky.” James was talking more softly now. I had to strain to hear. “Bright befriended Fuentes, learned her background. Saw a chance to walk into a new life and took it.”
“Home free until she ran into you.”
“Oh, she never gave up. That wasn’t Bright. She tried to buy her way out.”
“She offered you half.”
“She did.”
“You refused.”
“Why would I do that?” Astonished. “What was done was done. Fuentes was dead. We discussed our glorious life of shared wealth all the way to the top.”
“You continued up the mountain?”
“Why not?”
This guy really was certifiable.
Or was I? Alone on a deserted path with an accomplice to murder. I put more space between us.
“Honest truth? Until the bitch transferred my share, I didn’t want her out of my sight. Phones were useless at lower elevations. We had to get close to the summit to get an unblocked sat phone signal.”
“She trusted you?”
“Of course. We were planning a long and happy life with our loot. She couldn’t rat on me, I couldn’t rat on her.”
“But she died.”
The reptilian eyes bored into mine. So flat they seemed to suck all warmth from the night. “Tragic, wasn’t it? So close to the summit. Such a terrible accident.”
Not just an accomplice. A stone-cold killer. The neurons again screamed a warning. This time I decided to comply. Too late.
In one lightning move James bent and charged. The impact of his shoulder knocked the breath from my lungs and catapulted me backward. I’d barely processed that I was falling when frigid, churning water closed over my head. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Blood pounding in my ears, blind, I swirled with the current.
Kick! Fight!
I smashed into a boulder, winged off, spinning. My ribs screamed. My lungs burned. I tried to pull myself to the surface, but my waterlogged clothing dragged me down. Stars burst on the backs of my lids.
I forced my eyes open. Could see nothing but swirling brown chaos. Pulling with my arms, I angled my head in a direction I thought was up. I kicked. Kicked again, legs frantic, adrenaline firing through every fiber of my being.
Seconds seemed like eons. Finally my head broke the surface. I gulped air. Was dragged under again. Went wheeling. Fought my way back up.
I tried to get some bearings. To gain control of my flailing limbs. Failed. My body slammed another rock. Pain exploded up my back. Roaring filled my ears.
Then something. A shape in my peripheral vision. The pump house. I was being washed toward the filtration system.
My brain shot an image. Details taken in during my walk along the path with James. A narrow chute. Boulders forcing twelve million gallons of racing water through a three-foot gap. I was barreling straight for it out of control!
Before my mind could spit out a plan, I slammed the first boulder. Quickly pinwheeled to another. With animal desperation I struggled, finally managed to reorient my body. Despite the pain, I plastered myself like a barnacle to the rock’s surface. Clung with every ounce of my strength.
The surging water pushed me hard toward the chute and the pump house. Straining against the flow, I clawed my way crablike around the rock’s slippery circumference. Finally, I was able to heave my body topside out of the river.
I lay gasping. Too tired to turn my head. Too tired to look for James.
I don’t know how long I stayed there before I started to shake. Cold. Shock. Both. Trembling, I rolled to my bum and sat up. Surveyed my state.
Soaked. Chilled. Possible fractures. No phone. No keys. But I was out of the water. And connected to land. Hawk Island.
On hands and knees, I crawled from the boulder to solid ground. Another brief rest. Then I rose on unsteady legs and headed for the nearest building. The pump house.
A man stood in the control room, doing something with switches and knobs. Denim overalls, look of surprise.
“Hi,” I said.
The man’s eyes went even wider, then dropped to the puddle forming at my feet.
“Do you possibly have a phone I can use?”
“And then”—Anne flourished her fork for effect—“the damn rodent reached out a filthy paw, never breaking eye contact, and flicked my glass candle jar right off the patio table. Shattered into a m
illion pieces.”
“She didn’t like the way you’d abused her man.” I didn’t point out that raccoons are not rodents.
“Maybe. It was some coon Bride of Chucky action. And those crafty buggers can get in anywhere. I slept for days with a bat by the bed.”
I chuckled, then winced. Undirected, a hand went to my tightly wrapped torso. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Anne’s look was a sympathetic question mark.
“Rib fractures take time to heal,” I said.
“And the rest of you?” I knew she wasn’t querying other physical injuries. Those had turned out to be minor. Even so, Slidell, the recipient of my pump house phone call, had insisted on ambulance transport. The sum total of my grievances included two cracked ribs, abrasions, and sore muscles. Seriously, seriously sore muscles.
“Right as rain,” I said.
As if cued by my flippant response, my phone sang from below the table. I glanced into my open beach bag. The screen showed a caller with laser-blue eyes and wind-tousled hair. Surreptitiously, I hit decline. I’d tell Ryan all about the past few days. But not now.
“Here’s to Isle of Palms.” Anne lifted her wineglass and chinked it against my ice tea. “Flat as a twelve-year-old.” After a swallow of Chardonnay, she asked, “What’ll happen to Damon James?”
“Hard to say.” I pushed some lettuce around on my plate. Scored a crouton. The real reason to eat Caesar salad. “He didn’t get far. After Slidell issued a BOLO, a CMPD cruiser picked him up at a gas station near Kannapolis. He’s cooling his heels in the box right now.”
“For murder?”
“Doubtful. There’s no proof he killed Brighton Hallis.”
“But you think he did.”
I pictured cold green eyes. Remembered a bony shoulder slamming my gut.
“I do.”
“Why did he do it? He had access to the money.”
“Greed? Revenge? Rage? Feeling used can mess with a person’s mind. So can the promise of a large sum of money. Maybe he wanted the whole pot. Maybe Hallis pushed him past the tipping point. Maybe it was a split-second impulse. Or maybe she just slipped.” I didn’t really buy the last option. “James is lawyered up and not talking. I wouldn’t, either, were I in his shoes.”