In the Dark Page 3

  Dan cleared his throat, uncomfortable under her sudden scrutiny. Attractive women did that to him.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “I mean, who doesn’t?” He sure loved secrets. The deeper and darker the better. He made a living unearthing other people’s secrets. Secrets were collateral, their power directly proportional to that of whoever had the most to lose—or gain—by their revelation.

  “I can’t wait to see where we land tomorrow.” Monica deepened her smile.

  He nodded, wondering if she might be coming on to him. He’d be better able to tolerate this group once he got more alcohol into him—the nip he’d taken from the minibar this morning had long worn off. Monica’s smile faded. She turned to face the front and resumed quietly talking to her mushroom-professor husband.

  Who in their right mind would choose to specialize in fungi?

  Dan turned his attention to observing the others. A talent of his.

  Bart Kundera was driving. He owned a couple of these buses, along with a fleet of town cars. Bart was after the Forest Shadow transport contract, which would entail shuttling guests between Vancouver International and the floatplane dock at Thunderbird Ridge. Dark-haired, swarthy-complexioned, he was medium height. Strong build. A gym rat, Dan figured. He possessed an easy confidence and was good with people. Nice guy. Upbeat outlook on life.

  Amanda Gunn, their tour guide, sat directly behind the driver’s seat, glossy black hair piled atop her head in a complicated bun. She was checking something on her tablet, moving images with long, manicured fingers. Runway-model thin—too skinny for Dan’s taste. Give him boobs any day. He liked her mouth, though. It was wide and painted bloodred and full of whitened teeth. Her eyes were dark and liquid. She wore designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head, more for fashion than function, he reckoned.

  Across the aisle from Amanda, Katie Colbourne—a travel-documentary maker—filmed out the window with a fancy little digital camera she’d told Dan was waterproof. Katie was super attractive. A bottle blonde. Mid- to late thirties. Katie had told everyone over her plate of low-carb breakfast that she’d moved into travel documentaries after quitting her career as a television news reporter. She now had her own YouTube channel. Becoming a mother, she’d proclaimed, had prompted her career switch. Dan recognized her from her TV days—they all did. Over a decade ago Katie Colbourne had been a nightly fixture on the city news channel. He couldn’t quite recall what it was, but there’d been some controversy surrounding her.

  Behind Katie, a woman named Deborah Strong gazed out the window. A quiet brunette. There was a quality about Deborah Strong that made Dan think, Still waters run deep. She owned a company called Boutique Housekeeping, and she was gunning for the spa housekeeping contract.

  Across from Deborah sat a sturdy woman with eyes so intense and dark they looked black. Jackie Blunt. Late forties. Something unsettling about that woman, the way she regarded Dan when she thought he wasn’t looking. He’d swear on his life that he knew her from somewhere. And he’d put money on her being an ex-cop. Took one to know one. Maybe that was what accounted for the disquieting sense of familiarity. From the way Jackie Blunt was observing him, Dan figured she recognized him, too. Then again, Jackie Blunt seemed to be scrutinizing everyone with the same unnerving intensity—like she was sucking up micro-signs and tells and banking them all for some future payoff. She ran a company out of Burlington, Ontario, called Security Solutions, and she was obviously a candidate for the spa security contract.

  There was one more guest due to meet them at Thunderbird Ridge—Dr. Steven Bodine, a cosmetic surgeon and the medical director of the Oak Street Surgical Clinic. Tomorrow they would also meet their pilot, Stella Daguerre.

  Amanda turned in her seat and flashed her hundred-watt smile at the passengers. “Almost there!” she proclaimed.

  The words from Amanda’s overly cheery breakfast presentation echoed through Dan’s brain.

  The location is amazing. Simply stunning. Sumptuous luxury right on the shores of a sparkling lake located in utter pristine wilderness. Absolutely nothing—nothing—around in any direction for miles and miles and miles. It’s perfect for guests of means seeking seclusion, privacy. The Forest Shadow Wilderness Resort & Spa will meet all the needs of our primary target markets, which includes a cosmetic and wellness tourism component. The RAKAM Group in Malaysia is currently in negotiations with two private surgery clinics in the Lower Mainland. The idea is that guests who are seeking a new look—brand-new breasts, slimmer tummies, more youthful faces—or other nonessential medical procedures—can fly into YVR, where they will be picked up by a company like Bart’s Executive Transit. They will be discreetly transported to one of the clinics, where they will undergo their procedure, after which they will travel by shuttle for an overnight at the five-diamond Thunderbird Lodge, from where they will be flown by floatplane to the remote and private wilderness facility to recuperate and relax in peace with a full suite of spa treatments including pools, steam room, and lakeside saunas fired by wood in the old Scandinavian tradition. Plus gourmet West Coast–inspired cuisine created from the freshest natural ingredients . . .

  Dan thought this was nuts. What kind of business plan called for two days of travel after surgery before patients could recuperate in nature? But who was he to judge? Rich folk did all kinds of shit that made zero sense to him, and he didn’t really care either way, as long as they paid his bills and picked up his bar tab. The bus slowed. The indicator ticked. Bart turned the shuttle bus off the highway and onto a newly paved road. A large wooden sign carved with an eagle pointed the way: Thunderbird Ridge.

  Through his window Bart saw a bank of dark clouds amassing in the northeast. The wind blew through the trees. An odd little feeling of anxiety pinged through him. He needed a drink—that was all it was. Alcoholic withdrawal jitters.

  But as the shuttle bus started twisting up the section of new road, the dark evergreens hemmed in closer, and Dan’s anxiety deepened to a sense of unspecified dread.

  He never did like the wilderness.

  THE LODGE PARTY

  STELLA

  Sunday, October 25.

  Stella Daguerre ran through her preflight checklist. Everything was in order. She shaded her eyes and surveyed the surrounding mountains, visualizing her takeoff and landing on the other end, etching emergency protocols and egress points into her mind, so once she got into that pilot’s seat, everything would be second nature should unexpected problems occur on the flight.

  For the most part the weather was gorgeous. Bluebird sky. A white dusting of snow on the amphitheater of surrounding peaks, veins of deciduous orange and gold shooting through evergreen forests on the flanks. Thunderbird Lake glimmered with sunlight, and Stella’s de Havilland Canada DHC-2 Beaver Mk 1 bobbed gently alongside the floatplane dock. But the wind sock had begun to fill and creak on its stand, switching direction as the breeze began to shift and blow more insistently from the north.

  It was a cold wind.

  It would bring closer that big bank of black weather hulking in the distance. Stella needed to get her chunky plane up into the air and over that spine of mountains sooner rather than later. Crosswinds in this terrain could be tricky. And deadly. She checked her watch. Irritation flickered through her.

  The RAKAM Group contact person, Amanda Gunn—the one who’d hired Stella’s West Air charter—had informed Stella that her passengers would be on the dock and ready to board before 10:00 a.m. The Beaver’s doors were open and waiting. Stella was prepped to load baggage, warm up her bird, and give a quick safety briefing. But it was now 10:23 a.m. and still no sign of the tour group. Tension tightened her stomach. She glanced at the wind sock again. It puffed and flicked and snapped as the breeze gathered force. She reached for her cell. But as she was about to call Amanda, a gleaming black minibus with the Thunderbird Lodge logo pulled into a drop-off bay on the bank above the floatplane dock.

  Relief washed through her. Stella pocketed her phone as the bus do
or opened and a very slender woman disembarked, black hair ruffling in the wind. She was dressed in black jeans topped with a black leather jacket. A white, diaphanous scarf wound voluminously around her neck. Under her arm she carried a clipboard. A man in a hotel uniform alighted behind her. He scurried to the rear of the bus. The woman directed him to offload the bags as the rest of the passengers started to disembark. She then hastened down the stairs toward the floatplane dock and picked her way carefully over the gangway in her high heels.

  “Amanda Gunn,” the woman said breathily as she reached Stella. She proffered a delicate hand and monstrous smile. “We met on the phone.”

  Stella couldn’t read her eyes. They hid behind big, black designer sunglasses. She shook Amanda’s hand. The tour guide’s palm was cool and as smooth as a baby’s bum in contrast to Stella’s chapped, working hands. The wind swirled and gusted, sending a waft of Amanda’s scent toward Stella along with a scattering of dry autumn leaves at her feet. The woman smelled of perfume and menthol cigarettes. Stella disliked her on the spot.

  “I’m so sorry we’re late,” Amanda said. “One of our guests woke up sick, and—” She glanced over her shoulder to check that the hotel porter was helping the guests carry their bags down. “I thought he was just hungover.” She spoke quickly, as if to get it all explained before the others arrived on the dock. “We had an open bar last night, and there’s always one or two who hit these things too hard. I thought he’d get himself into shape after a hot shower and some strong coffee this morning, so we waited, but he really is quite ill. He claims there’s no way he can fly today, so you’re one passenger down, I’m afraid.” She tried to force another smile but came off flustered.

  Stella fetched her passenger manifest. “Who are we down?” she asked.

  “Dan Whitlock,” Amanda said. “I have a rental waiting. I’ll take him back to the city with me, drop him off at a doctor on my way. The shuttle bus will remain here for the return trip when you bring the guests back.”

  Stella scanned the list in search of Dan Whitlock’s name. As she did, the hotel porter approached, carrying two bags.

  “Where shall we put the luggage, ma’am?”

  She motioned to a spot near the rear of the plane where the loading door had been lifted upward.

  “Shall I load it right in?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Just stack it in front of the loading door.” She wanted to cross-check each bag against the passenger list. In her experience, guests did not take seriously the weight restrictions required of small-aircraft travel and often tried to sneak on extra belongings. Loading a plane badly could result in a deadly accident, especially during takeoff or landing, when weight radically affected aircraft performance. She found Dan Whitlock’s name, crossed it off her list. “Have you weighed the bags?” she asked Amanda.

  “Before we left the hotel at YVR yesterday, and again this morning. Everything’s on target.” The guide looked increasingly edgy. “I made it clear that everything they required would be provided by the spa, from eco-toiletries to top-of-the-line alcohol and food.”

  As she spoke, the guests gathered around them.

  Introductions were made, and Stella checked each passenger off her manifest: Bart Kundera—transit-company guy. Monica McNeill—catering woman. Nathan McNeill, Monica’s husband and her plus-one for the junket. Deborah Strong—housekeeping woman. Katie Colbourne—travel journalist and ex–TV news personality. And Jackie Blunt—security woman. Jackie held Stella’s gaze for a moment too long, and Stella saw a questioning look in the woman’s intense and close-set eyes. It sent a frisson through Stella, and a tiny bead of concern formed down deep in her gut.

  “Have we met?” Stella asked.

  Jackie’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

  But the way she said it made Stella believe Jackie might think otherwise. While they spoke, Katie panned her small camcorder across the group, causing Jackie to step back slightly, and her facial expression turned benign.

  “This place is freaking Swiss-chocolate-box gorgeous,” Katie said, turning in a slow circle to capture the amphitheater of snowcapped peaks.

  “Swiss chocolate boxes have nothing on this,” Monica said, her voice lounge-singer husky. “This is a real slice of heaven. And right in our own backyards.”

  “Right? What did I tell you guys?” Amanda offered them all a big white smile, working to keep her clients in a good frame of mind.

  Stella gave the porter the go-ahead to load the bags.

  “What kind of plane is this?” Katie asked from behind her camera.

  “De Havilland Beaver Mk 1,” Stella said, conscious of a need to address potential viewers. “The iconic Canadian bush plane, a post–World War Two workhorse. The first Beaver was rolled off a Toronto production line in the forties. It was called the aerial dogsled of the north.”

  Katie panned her lens over the bright yellow-and-blue floatplane as Stella spoke.

  “Okay, everyone,” Stella called out, “gather round and listen up. Number one rule, do not cross that red line painted on the dock.” She pointed. “Because we’re pressed for time, I’m going to start warming the aircraft, then I’ll give a quick safety briefing. But you need to score that no-cross line into your minds. A meeting with that propeller will change—or end—your life.”

  Glances were exchanged and the mood shifted slightly. Stella was glad to assert her authority, making it clear she was boss as long as they were in that plane. She made for her cockpit door.

  “Oh, wait,” Amanda called from behind Stella. “We’re still waiting for one more guest.”

  Stella stilled. She did a quick head count.

  “We have six passengers.”

  “Yes. But we’re still expecting Dr. Steven Bodine. He’ll make it seven, then.” Amanda consulted her designer watch. “He phoned from Squamish about twenty minutes ago, so he really should be here any second now.”

  Stella eyed Amanda steadily, then reached again for her list. She checked it carefully. “There’s no Steven Bodine on my list.”

  “There must be.” Amanda came closer and looked.

  “I don’t see a Bodine,” Stella said.

  “He’s the cosmetic surgeon from the Oak Street Surgical Clinic. He’s key on this trip.”

  Stella drew the woman aside and lowered her voice. “Look, I had seven passengers on my list including Dan Whitlock. My plane, as it’s configured, takes a maximum of eight including me, the pilot. Your boss was made aware of this when I was contracted. I made it clear. So how can there be an extra passenger if the RAKAM Group didn’t know Dan Whitlock was going to get sick and bail? We wouldn’t have gotten them all on board if he didn’t.”

  Amanda blanched. Her brow furrowed. Quietly, urgently, she said, “I sent you the list. I’m sure Dr. Steven Bodine was on it. Wait . . .” She riffled through the pages attached to her clipboard. “Here—here is my list.”

  Stella’s and Amanda’s lists did not match up.

  In Stella’s peripheral vision she saw Jackie Blunt watching them intently, clearly trying to eavesdrop on their discussion. Amanda flicked a glance toward Jackie, then angled her body to block her line of sight. She drew Stella closer. The wind snapped at a flag up near the hotel shuttle van, and the halyard began to clunk against the pole. The wind sock stiffened. Urgency crackled through Stella. She glanced toward the bank of dark weather moving closer over the mountains from the north.

  “There must have been some misunderstanding,” Amanda whispered. “Look, I’m really sorry. This is my first PR gig with this company via the temp agency I’m signed with. I . . . I’m a little nervous. To get it all right, you know? It’s potentially a great contract if they decide to take me on longer term.” She swallowed. Gusts of wind loosened strands from her hair spray–stiffened topknot.

  Stella’s feelings toward the woman softened slightly. “It’s just as well Dan Whitlock is not coming,” she said. “We can work with this. But if Dr. Bodine is not here with
in the next five minutes for the security briefing, he doesn’t fly. Okay? My charter. My plane. My rules. Safety first. Like you, I also want a long-term contract out of this, and for all I know, this is a test of both your and my professionalism. Part of the audition.”

  “Right. Right, of course. I’ll phone him again.” A tremor of nerves hitched Amanda’s voice as she reached into her jacket pocket for her cell. Clearly she badly wanted her contract with the RAKAM Group.

  Stella returned to her cockpit. Jackie’s dark and penetrating gaze followed her, deepening Stella’s sense that the woman recognized her from somewhere.

  Stella loosened the primer knob near the base of the door and climbed up into the seat. Ahead, beyond the single prop blade, the lake stretched in a narrowing V between the mountains. She checked the oil cap—locked. Fuel gauge, wobble pump gauge—all looked good.

  She pumped the primer knob, set it in the locked position, and turned on the master switch. She then worked a lever on the console gently up and down before flicking a small starter switch. The engine made a sound like a whining car struggling to start. She hit the mags, and the Beaver engine coughed into noisy, uncertain life. She adjusted the mixture until the engine settled into a more rhythmic, throaty, and comforting growl and the single prop whirled into a blur. She felt adrenaline rise like a nice buzz in her veins. This was her element, where she felt safe. Her plane. Flying.

  Her preference was to wait for five to six hundred rpm before she considered her plane nicely warmed up.

  Stella got out, but as she was about to commence her briefing, a convertible roared into the parking bay. Everyone swiveled to stare up toward the road as a low, silver Jaguar screeched to a halt behind the hotel van.

  A man alighted from the Jaguar. Tall. Healthy head of sandy-brown hair ruffling in the wind that was picking up far too fast for Stella’s comfort. Irritation snapped at her. She checked her watch again and glanced at the wind sock. Dry autumn leaves skittered in a wave across the dock. The man reached into the back seat of his convertible, yanked out a backpack, hoisted it over one shoulder, and came striding heavily down the gangway, his hiking boots thumping against the planks, his gait long and confident, a boyish smile across his tanned, middle-aged face. A Peter Pan, she thought. With a surgeon’s God complex.