In the Dark Page 16

  Mason pulled up another photo. “Blunt has a Facebook account. From the phone data we’ve determined she posted this photo at eleven thirty-three a.m. on Sunday, October twenty-fifth. Shortly before reported takeoff from Thunderbird Lodge.”

  The image filled the screen. A group of eight people—five women and three men—gathered on a dock in bright jackets and smiles in front of a daffodil-yellow-and-blue floatplane with the prop whirring. The Beaver was clearly readying for takeoff. In the background was a distinctive black spire, or cinder cone peak. Callie knew it instantly as Black Tusk, or Landing Place of the Thunderbird, in the language of the Squamish people. Her heart quickened. “And who are the others? Do we know yet?”

  Mason nodded. “From Krimmer we’ve learned that Jackie Blunt flew into YVR on Saturday, October twenty-fourth via Air Canada flight 49. Blunt called Krimmer from the Gateway Hotel at YVR that night. At the hotel she also met up with the rest of that group, minus the pilot and one male.” He pointed to the photo.

  “From hotel staff we’ve learned the names of the other passengers, and the name of their tour guide. All expenses, including flights into YVR, were paid via a credit card linked to a company out of Malaysia—the RAKAM Group. Investigations are ongoing with assistance from the Lower Mainland RCMP, but at this point we know that everyone in the group was invited on an all-expenses-paid trip to a new luxury wilderness lodge and spa development at a ‘secret’ destination in the BC interior. The Forest Shadow Wilderness Resort & Spa. The group was bused to the new Thunderbird hotel, where they overnighted. The following morning they met up with the pilot and the additional passenger. They departed via that de Havilland Beaver Mk 1 for the location, which had been disclosed only to the pilot via text.”

  “How do we know this?” Podgorsky asked, chewing the end of a pencil as he studied the image of the group.

  “From Amanda Gunn. She’s listed with a temp agency that was contacted by a representative of the RAKAM Group. And she was hired to set up the junket. Each guest invited on that trip worked in a field that could potentially contract services to the RAKAM Group. Amanda Gunn told detectives in the Lower Mainland that if the guests liked what they saw, they would be invited to submit a tender. She said the RAKAM host was to meet the guests at the spa. Gunn herself was angling for full-time work with the spa.”

  “What is this RAKAM Group?” Hubb asked.

  “It appears to be a front, a scam.”

  “What?” Hubb leaned forward.

  “Everything so far leads back to a numbered company with offshore accounts. The investigation on that front is ongoing. Right now, our immediate focus here in Kluhane Bay is those missing people.” Mason pointed to the screen. “Pilot Stella Daguerre. Forty-eight. Owner-operator of West Air, based on Galiano Island; Dr. Nathan McNeill, fifty-six, professor of mycology at Toronto University; his wife, Monica McNeill, fifty-four, grocery-chain heiress and CEO of Holistic Foods.”

  A whistle came from Hubb. “That one’s going to hit headlines.”

  “So will these.” Mason pointed to a blonde woman in the group. “Katie Colbourne, travel documentary maker, ex–television news personality.”

  Callie studied the enlarged photo on the monitor. She recognized the woman’s face. Katie Colbourne had been a regular on CRTV news some years back.

  Mason pointed to a tall male in the smiling group. “Dr. Steven Bodine, the cosmetic surgeon behind the famous Oak Street Surgical Clinic; Bart Kundera, thirty-nine, owner-operator of Executive Transit in Burnaby. This here is Deborah Strong, thirty-one, runs Boutique Housekeeping based out of Surrey. And Jackie Blunt.” Mason met their gazes in turn.

  “According to Amanda Gunn, there was one additional guest who was supposed to fly out that day. Dan Whitlock. A private investigator who ran a one-man show out of East Van. Whitlock never made it onto the charter. The morning of their departure, he suffered anaphylactic shock. Whitlock was pronounced dead by the regional coroner shortly after the aircraft took off. He was highly allergic to shellfish. Shellfish was served at the buffet the night before, although hotel staff claim they were careful not to allow other food served to come into contact with the shellfish. The coroner initially did not refer the file to the RCMP, but the RCMP are now taking the lead in Whitlock’s death investigation, given the context.”

  “So nine people were supposed to fly?” Callie asked. “Because the downed de Havilland—the way I saw it configured—could only accommodate eight, including the pilot.”

  “Correct.”

  “So he wasn’t supposed to make it?” Hubb asked.

  Mason said nothing.

  Hubb and Podgorsky exchanged a glance. “Shit,” Hubb said as she clicked the back of a pen repeatedly. “And this pilot, Stella Daguerre, she flew charter planes with false registrations?”

  “West Air has two floatplanes. Both aircraft have been found moored at the company’s dock on Galiano,” Mason said. “Both are properly registered. Either Daguerre owned an additional, unregistered aircraft, or she might have been provided use of this de Havilland Beaver by the so-called RAKAM Group. This investigation is escalating into a large and multifaceted operation, and all avenues of inquiry are ongoing. We’ll be updated with information as it comes in. Our focus right now is to locate those missing passengers, if they are in this area.” He turned to Callie. “Which is where SAR comes in.”

  She rubbed her chin absently, turning things over in her mind. “I know TSB crash investigations can take months if not years, but has any preliminary information come in from the Transportation Safety Board guys?” she asked.

  Mason pulled up another image of the crashed de Havilland Beaver. The mood in the room sobered. This image of the mangled wreck with the dead pilot inside stood in stark contrast to the photo of the intact plane with the smiling group gathered in front of it.

  “The TSB initial assessment is that this aircraft did not collide with land or water,” Mason said.

  The room fell silent. Outside, the wind picked up, loosening frozen lumps of snow from a tree and hurling them at the window. Urgency mounted in Callie. The weather window was closing on them fast.

  “TSB investigators say the damage to the aircraft is more likely consistent with the de Havilland Beaver having been washed down rapids and then over the falls.” Mason cleared his throat as Callie caught his eye.

  Both knew who’d sent that plane over the falls.

  “The pathologist has also determined that Jackie Blunt’s cause of death was exsanguination. She bled out when the blade of the Schrade severed her carotid. It would have been fast. The most likely scenario is she was stabbed while the plane was on water and not in the air.”

  “Especially since she was not a pilot, and likely couldn’t fly it,” offered Hubb, clicking her pen. “Which begs the question: What was she doing in that pilot seat?”

  Callie said, “And so far there’s no clue as to their destination?”

  Mason tapped a key on his laptop, and an aerial shot filled the screen. It showed a development on the shore of a long lake that had two small bays at the end. A big main building, many smaller cabins. Connecting pathways with lighting. A network of docks. A helipad marked with a big X. It had been taken in the fall, judging by the red-and-gold deciduous foliage scattered among the evergreens. Behind the development rose a large granite mountain. Callie’s pulse quickened.

  Mason said, “This is allegedly the Forest Shadow Wilderness Resort & Spa. The ‘company’ website has gone down, but this image was retrieved from a cached version. Location of those buildings is as yet unknown.”

  Callie pushed off the desk and walked slowly toward the image, her skin going hot. She examined it closely to be sure, then gave a soft snort. “It’s fake.” She turned to Mason. “That’s the north end of Taheese Lake. That lodge does not exist.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain.” She pointed. “That hunk of granite behind the development is Mount Warden. I know. I
’ve climbed the west route with Peter. And those there are the two little bays I recognize. There is an old lodge at the north end. But it doesn’t look like that. And these other buildings pictured? It’s all been photoshopped in. See those trees? That’s red oak—Quercus rubra.” She glanced at Mason. “Peter is a forester. I know trees. He never stops—never stopped . . . talking trees.” Callie wavered a moment. She inhaled, but when she spoke again, her voice came out less strident, less assured.

  “Northern red oak, or champion oak, as it’s sometimes called, is native in the eastern and central United States, and in southeast and south-central Canada. Those trees do not grow in this region.”

  “Fake lodge,” Hubb said. “Fake company. Unregistered plane—this whole trip was some kind of ruse? Why?”

  Mason said, “Our role is to focus on finding the missing.” But Callie saw a look in his eyes that said he was more accustomed to leading a major investigation than being sidelined to a SAR commander role. This had to gut him. Even just a little.

  “Saving lives,” Callie said quietly, “is, to my mind, the priority here, no matter what end of the investigation anyone is coming from.”

  “Hard to imagine,” Podgorsky said, “given the apparent homicide and the time lapsed since takeoff, plus the weather we’ve been having, that those remaining seven are still alive.”

  Outside, the wind gusted as if on cue, just to remind them who was in charge out here. Mother Nature. Not them.

  Callie picked up a ruler off the desk and went to the topographical map that covered the wall. She reached up and tapped the map with the end of the ruler. “This is Taheese Lake. Fifty kilometers from the north end down to the outflow into the Taheese River at the south, where we found the Beaver.” She faced the three officers in the room. “About five years ago I went camping at the far end of a lake called Mahood, in Wells Gray Provincial Park. There was a floatplane incident where the pilot couldn’t start the engine of his aircraft. The wind was blowing fiercely down-lake. As he struggled, his aircraft drifted faster and faster toward the outflow, then it caught the current, went faster. He was sucked into the river and into white water. His plane overturned going down the rapids, and it was smashed. If, according to the TSB, there is no immediate indication of a land or water collision with this de Havilland Beaver, my first supposition would be that it could have come from Taheese Lake. And my first area of interest would be that old lodge building at the north end. The prevailing winds over the past two weeks have been from the north, and strong. Taheese Lake is narrow. The steep mountains on either side funnel the wind into a fierce force.” She pointed to the north bay.

  “This would be my highest POD. This is where I would look first. A plane in trouble could have blown all the way down this lake and into the outflow here. From this point the river gathers volume and velocity as it channels into the Taheese Narrows, here.” She looked pointedly at Mason. “This is where the plane was first seen by the hunters. It could have come down the rapids in higher water and gotten hung up on the ledge as waters dropped again. And then it sustained further damage going back into the river and over the first waterfall. If that Beaver flew into that lodge, the remaining seven might have shelter. They might all still be alive.”

  “And one might be a killer,” said Podgorsky. “Because someone stabbed Jackie Blunt in the neck.”

  “What is that lodge?” Mason asked.

  “The land was owned by some old eccentric from the States,” Hubb said. “The buzz in town is he had a ton of money. Something to do with Hollywood in his past. He used to fly himself in.”

  “Was owned?” Mason asked.

  “No one has seen him around in a while,” said Podgorsky.

  “Did he fly in using his own aircraft?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hubb said.

  Mason looked at Podgorsky. The cop shrugged.

  “What’s his name?” Mason asked.

  “Franz somebody,” said Podgorsky.

  “Callie? Do you know him?”

  She shook her head. “I saw him. Once. Maybe three years back, when he came into town. He must be in his eighties now, if he’s still alive. He usually kept to himself out there when he did come in.”

  “We need to get out there. Stat,” Mason said, shutting his laptop.

  “Not by air,” Callie said. “Not in this weather. And it’s only going to get worse, especially at higher elevations. Taheese Lake is about six hundred meters higher than Kluhane Bay. We’ll need four-wheel-drive vehicles and then SAR boats to reach the lodge.”

  Mason reached for his jacket. He turned to Hubb. “Find out who owns that land now.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Podgorsky, you’re in command of comms from the detachment. Pass on all leads that come in. I’ll be in sat phone and radio contact.” He paused and met the eyes of his officers. “This one is going to hit the press sooner rather than later. I alone serve as the Kluhane media liaison. If I’m not available, refer all inquiries to the media liaison in Prince George. Callie, same goes for SAR techs. No comments to reporters.” He held her gaze.

  She felt a cool wall go up between herself and Mason. When it came to SAR ops, his predecessor had always left commenting to the media up to the SAR manager. And she was good at it. She hit the right notes on camera. Then again, in Sergeant Mason Deniaud’s defense, KSAR had not handled a search for a high-profile grocery-chain heiress, or a cosmetic surgeon, or a well-known television reporter. Nor had any of their previous subjects ended up strapped into a pilot’s seat with a vintage knife stabbed into their necks.

  “My team knows their responsibilities,” she said tonelessly. She snagged her own jacket off the back of the chair and left the room to set an official KSAR callout in motion.

  THE LODGE PARTY

  DEBORAH

  Monday, October 26.

  Deborah huddled with the others in the great room beneath the reproachful eyes of the mangy-looking taxidermy trophies mounted on the paneled walls.

  Their plane was gone.

  And Jackie was missing.

  When Stella and Bart had yelled for everyone to come downstairs, Jackie had been nowhere in the house to be found.

  The woman’s bags were still in her room, everything left as if she intended to return. A sleep shirt and leggings were laid out on her bed. Toothpaste and toothbrush and face lotion had been neatly placed on the counter in her en suite bathroom. But her bed had not been slept in. And her jacket and boots were gone.

  Most terrifying of all: a second figurine had been toppled off the checkerboard, and it lay on the coffee table in front of them with its head freshly lopped off. Deborah stared at it.

  Who’d done that? One of the people sitting with her now? Or had someone been watching from the woods and come in from the outside?

  Wood cracked behind the fire grate, and Deborah jumped. She was on a knife-edge. Everyone was. Fidgety, frightened. Nathan had built a roaring fire this morning while Steven had made coffee. Both claimed to have been unable to sleep, and Nathan had gone out early to gather more wood.

  Steven handed out mugs of instant coffee from a tray he carried. Bart paced irritatingly behind the sofa, looking truly skittish for the first time since Deborah had met him at the Vancouver airport. He kept rubbing the back of his left hand. It had been cut. He’d told her he’d banged it when he’d slipped in slush this morning. He, too, had claimed an inability to sleep and had gone out investigating in the early hours of dawn.

  He’d run into Steven on the trail. Both had encountered Stella. It seemed like half their group had been outside in the dark, misty hours of dawn while Deborah had been throwing up in the toilet.

  She shook her head, declining the coffee Steven offered her, worried she’d puke again. Either Jackie’s direct statement last night that she’d seen Deborah’s tattoo before, and knew Deborah from the past, had made her sick, or she was still getting morning sickness even though she was just over twelve weeks now, and through the first trimest
er. With her and Ewan’s baby. She had to hold that in mind. A future. She would get through this. She would get home. She would be at that airport to welcome home her military hero when he returned from deployment. She would have balloons filled with helium, and she would tell him the wonderful news now that she was well past the three-month mark.

  Deborah’s mind went to Jackie’s words on the plane.

  You remind me of someone. Kat . . . Kata . . . Katarina, I think her name was.

  Deborah was glad Jackie was gone. Really glad. Her secret was safe now.

  Her gaze dropped to the piece of paper with the horrible verse. It lay on the table, faceup, next to the checkerboard with the figurines.

  Eight Little Liars flew up into the heavens.

  One saw the truth, and then there were seven.

  Nathan said, “Okay, Stella, walk us through this. Tell us exactly what you found, blow by blow.”

  Stella dragged a hand over her damp hair. Deborah noticed it was trembling. Even their rock-steady pilot was scared. They were all cracking, bit by bit.

  “I went down the trail to the lake,” Stella said slowly. “There were no prints in the fresh snow, not leading down to the dock. I ran into Steven near the water.”

  “I was looking for the other bay,” Steven interjected.

  Nathan frowned at the surgeon. “So early?”

  “I’m not the only one who was up,” snapped Steven. “You were gathering wood from the shed, it seems. And Bart was out there, too.”

  “Yeah,” said Bart, still rubbing the back of his hand nervously. “I . . . heard someone on the dock, saw a shape in the mist, so went to investigate.”

  “What were you doing out there in the first place, Bart?” Deborah asked, growing increasingly rattled by Bart’s pacing and hand rubbing.

  “I was going to do the same as Steven. Look again at the trail in the light. But I saw prints leading down to the dock, so followed those instead. Then I saw Stella. She was examining the ropes, and the plane was gone.”