Bones on Ice: A Novella by Kathy Reichs Page B

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.

Chapter 11
    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 de Aconcagua Parco Nacional.”
    “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,