Bones on Ice: A Novella (8 page)

I learned that a charitable website linked Viviana’s summiting endeavors to Alzheimer’s fundraising efforts in honor of her afflicted mother. Viviana’s Facebook page boasted that Everest would complete her Seven Summits. Surprisingly, the page went silent after 2012.

I also learned that Viviana Fuentes was dead.

Fuentes fell while attempting to summit Aconcagua, a mountain she’d successfully climbed in the past. The accident had taken place four months earlier.

I don’t trust coincidence.

A new series of Google searches yielded what I needed. I again checked the clock. Revisited the time conversion site. Mendoza, Argentina, was one hour ahead of EST. Far too late to call at that hour. And far too late for me to still be working.

Frustrated and exhausted, I logged off the computer. I’d never hit so many twists in one case. As I drove home, questions swirled in my overwrought, overtired brain.

Had Brighton Hallis swapped identities with Viviana Fuentes? Why? To avoid prosecution? Had the trade been made willingly? Was Viviana Fuentes the woman lying in my cooler? If not Fuentes, who? And whom had the killer intended to put there?

I was back at it early. Before making calls, I educated myself about Aconcagua. Located in Argentina, east of the Chilean border, the 6,900-meter peak is the tallest in the world outside the Himalayas. Though technically an uncomplicated climb, Aconcagua sees multiple casualties each year, and holds the dubious distinction of having the highest mountain death rate in South America. The most recently recorded was that of Viviana Fuentes.

Aconcagua also happened to be one of the Seven Summits still on Brighton Hallis’s bucket list. A theory was congealing in my brain.

“Couldn’t resist, could you?” I reached for my phone and dialed a lengthy string of numbers. Listened to a harsh international
brrrrppp
. “Had to make Daddy proud.”

Another
brrrrppp
, then a woman answered speaking shotgun Spanish. “Centro de Visitantes de Aconcagua Parco Nacional.”

I replied in Spanish, considerably more slowly.

“Yes, please may I help you?” She shifted to flawless English.

Fine. My Spanish was rusty. Taking the hint, I rolled with her and stated the reason for my call.

“Let me find the dossier.” I heard the squeak of a drawer. Flipping. Shuffling. Actual paper files. “Ah yes, so tragic. Ms. Fuentes purchased an unguided, high-season Valle de la Vacas permit.”

“Can you explain that?”
Por favor
.

“Of course. The park has two entry points and multiple climbing options. Permit prices vary depending on the season and whether a trip is guided. Ms. Fuentes intended a solo ascent along the Direct Polish Glacier. It is our most difficult route.”

“How difficult?”

“The Direct Polish Glacier is secluded and significantly more challenging than the Ruta Normal. It has fifty- to seventy-degree snow and ice gradients requiring technical ice mounting skills, protection, and roped climbing. Few climbers choose this path. Ms. Fuentes did. Her résumé qualified her for such a permit.” More shuffling. “According to our records, she entered the park at Pampa de Lenas station on December twenty-eighth.”

“How many others were on the mountain during the period of her climb?”

This time keys clicked. “Three groups were up the Polish Glacier when Ms. Fuentes entered the park. We registered one other new climber that same day. An American. He ascended solo.”

“Do you have the name of the other climber?”

“I have aggregated data with numbers and nationalities. Individual permits are filed by name rather than date. To match them up requires hand-sorting through records.” She sighed. “If you leave contact information, I will phone you back.”

I accepted her offer and provided my mobile number. “I’d appreciate the names of anyone summiting around the same time as Fuentes.”

“According to the aggregate data, no one else checked in for the Polish Glacier until December thirtieth, when a German team began the trek up.”

“The Germans found her body?”

“No. When Ms. Fuentes didn’t return within an expected time, a ranger went looking. The German crew reported seeing a male climber descending solo, but never encountered Ms. Fuentes. It is presumed she perished shortly after summiting.”

“Do I understand correctly? Rangers track the climbers?”

“Formally, there is no monitoring on the mountain. Permits are valid for twenty days. Climbers are encouraged to carry radios. If concerns are raised, a ranger will deploy.”

“In Ms. Fuentes’s case, concern was raised by…” I let the question hang.

“Pace is dictated by weather and ability. Most climbers arrive at the park acclimatized and ready to proceed. From the ranger station at Pampa de Lenas, it’s a two-day trip up to base camp. It’s another day to Camp One, and another to Camp Two. Summit day, departing from Camp Two, should take no more than twelve hours.”

I did the math. Nine to twelve days.

“So the ranger went looking after two weeks?” I hazarded.

“Exactly. He located the body on January sixteenth at an altitude of sixty-four hundred meters, in a deep channel. It appeared Ms. Fuentes had fallen to her death. The remains were retrieved and transported to authorities in Mendoza.”

“How was identity confirmed?”

“Identity was never in question.” Puzzled. “Ms. Fuentes was carrying her permit and her passport.”

“Do you have the number of the Mendoza morgue?”

I scribbled the information, hung up, and immediately punched in more digits. Minutes later I was connected to Dr. Ignacio Silva of the Cuerpo Médico Forense, Morgue Judicial. Again, I started in Spanish. Again the reply came in English. Well, muchas friggin’ gracias.

“I remember the case.” Silva’s words were music to my ears. “It is a great pity when such a young woman dies.”

“Can you describe Ms. Fuentes?” Barely breathing.

“Caucasian female, blond, approximately one hundred and seventy-three centimeters in height.”

More quick math. Sixty-eight inches.

“Fit, no signs of disease or abnormality. Or course, there were significant injuries resulting from her fall. The drop was estimated to be a minimum of twenty meters.”

“Did you take X-rays?”

A moment of hesitation. When Silva spoke again, there was a very slight edge to his perfectly honed English. “Due to budgetary constraints, there are times when we must make difficult decisions. I deemed X-ray unnecessary in this case. It was clear to me that the victim had died as a result of a fall followed by exposure.”

Shit
.

“Next of kin had no reservations?”

“Sadly, there really were no next of kin. Ms. Fuentes had a mother who was institutionalized with advanced Alzheimer’s disease. But identity was never in question.” He paused. “We did take fingerprints, for our records, before cremating the body.”

“Is there any way you could share those?” Masking my excitement.

“Certainly. Provide an email address and I’ll send you images.”

Silva was true to his word. And efficient. Minutes after we disconnected, my inbox pinged notice of an incoming message. I opened the file and took a quick look. Then I sat awhile. Thinking and sipping coffee.

When that approach triggered no hundred-watt lighting up over my head, I pushed from my desk and went to make hard copy of the image Silva had sent. When the machine spit out its product, I checked the detail. Each dark little oval was full of loops or swirls or arches or whatever.

On to autopsy room five. I looked at the cast. The isolated bones. The card showing the prints taken from the mummy in the cooler. I lay Silva’s prints next to those obtained by Joe Hawkins.

Considered.

Quick call to Blythe Hallis. Decision. I dialed Slidell to explain what was winging his way. And what I needed.

“Get someone to run them through AFIS.”

I was asking that the prints I was sending be input into the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

“The guys in the lab ain’t gonna like it.”

“Then you do it.”

“What’re the chances she’ll be in the system?”

“She could be.” It was a long shot, but I was hoping.

“Eeyuh.”

“Look, only law enforcement can submit prints to AFIS.”

“No shit.”

“Tell them it’s for me.”

“That should do the trick.”

It did. Or maybe it was Slidell’s captivating personality. Ninety minutes later I had my answer.

I leaned back in my chair. Stunned. Not really believing.

I’d learned from Blythe Hallis that Brighton had interned with the National Park Service during her college summers. And I knew the AFIS database includes prints of individuals employed by the federal government. My long shot had paid off. One of the candidate “matches” generated by the search was Brighton Hallis.

Brighton Hallis had indeed perished atop a treacherous Seven Summit peak. But not on Everest. And not in 2012.

Brighton Hallis had died four months ago on Aconcagua. She’d been autopsied and cremated under the name Viviana Fuentes.

More phone time with Slidell.

“You’re saying Brighton Hallis offed Viviana Fuentes to steal her identity?” Slidell sounded as though I’d suggested the outlawing of soup.

“The physical resemblance is remarkable. If they’d switched outerwear, it could easily fool the casual observer.”

“I change jackets all the time. My ma still knows it’s me.”

Skinny had a mother? I stored that away for future consideration.

“Neither of the women encountered a KA after Brighton’s death.” I used cop lingo for known associate. “A woman wearing Viviana’s jacket was airlifted to Kathmandu and subsequently disappeared. A woman wearing Brighton’s jacket and gear was found by strangers, frozen to death. People see what they’re told they see. And in Viviana’s case there was no one to raise questions.”

“What the flip does that mean?”

“Her only relative was a mother with late-stage dementia. Fuentes worked as a software contractor for herself, alone, from home.” Slidell tried to interrupt. I rolled on. “And even if someone did raise questions, there was no body to exhume.”

“How’d Hallis get Fuentes’s passport?”

“Unguided climbers carry their own. Brighton probably helped herself when she
switched gear.”

“The two were pals?”

“I found nothing to suggest they’d met before Everest. It could have been a crime of opportunity. Brighton saw her chance to start a new life with a new name and a cool million. Took it.”

Slidell made that throat noise he makes.

“That late in the day, they’d have been the only climbers foolish enough to remain that high up. It explains why Brighton loitered at Hillary Step, waiting for Fuentes.”

“Not to help her, but to bash her.” Slidell was coming around. “So Hallis arranges to be alone up top with Fuentes, takes her down with an ice axe, cracks her skull, maybe twice, smashes her teeth, switches gear, and skips on down the mountain with a fake Spanish accent, a new name, and a feigned case of the dizzies.”

Not bad, Skinny. “Yes. The location of the head trauma is consistent with an assailant matching Brighton’s height and weight.”

“Risky business.”

“So’s prison.”

“But Hallis is now toast?”

“Ash, actually. The body was cremated.”

“Sonofaflyingbitch.”

“Yeah.”

For several seconds silence hummed across the line. I broke it.

“The only other climber up that route that day was a guy. I’m trying to track him down to see if he remembers seeing Viviana along the trail.”

“What do you need from me?”

“See if you can find a connection between Hallis and Fuentes before Everest. Any evidence of collusion or premeditation. See if Hallis got sloppy after Everest. Slipped. Contacted someone. Used an old bank account. Got arrested for jaywalking. Anything to prove Hallis was living the good life in South America after 2012.”

Clearly Slidell didn’t share my enthusiasm. “Not sure the point. They’re both history.”

“Justice for Viviana Fuentes,” I said.

“This ain’t gonna make Blythe Hallis happy.”

“But it will make her go away. And it puts a solve on your score sheet.” Both persuasive arguments for Slidell.

After we’d disconnected I ran through everything I’d learned in the last few days. Got snagged on something Elon Gass had said.

I think Damon joined them
.

Damon James had met Viviana Fuentes. Had talked to her and Brighton at Camp III. Might he have something to contribute? I looked up his number and dialed.

“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 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, 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 bore 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?”