Fuck.
“Hoi!” came a yell from above. “Sergeant Deniaud! Sit tight. Do not move! I’m coming down. Don’t move!”
He didn’t dare. If he slid any farther, he was going right into the churning white water along with the mangled wreck.
A rope’s end hit the rock ledge near his face. He heard movement above. Small stones and debris skittered over him. He shut his eyes to avoid the dirt raining down.
A few moments later the climber landed on the flat and drier part of the ledge. Mason opened his eyes, saw boots. A gloved hand reached down for him.
“Can you take hold of my hand?” The voice was female.
He swallowed and reached up toward the voice. The climber grasped hold of his wrist. Relief shot through him.
“Hold tight around my wrist—can you do that? It forms a more solid lock, like a chain.”
He grasped firmly so they were clasped wrist to wrist.
“Good job. Now I’m going to pull you toward me. Try to use your feet to assist. Got it? Dig your toes into the rock to get a grip.”
He nodded. As his rescuer pulled, he found traction with his boots. Carefully he edged himself free of the wreck and closer to the climber, but as he did, the floatplane gave a massive groan and slid into the water. It made a loud sucking and crunching sound as the boiling foam embraced it. Then it was gone, swallowed by the raging and frothing water.
He froze.
Fuck.
He’d just sent a crashed floatplane and dead pilot, and a whole barrel of evidence, downriver.
“Don’t look. Keep your focus on me. Just focus on coming toward me.”
Mason inched up the slippery incline with his rescuer’s assistance. Finally, after several slips and starts, he made it back onto the flatter, drier section of the ledge. The woman helped him up onto his knees. He was breathing hard, drenched with sweat and river mist. It had started to rain, too. Immediately she secured a rope and harness around his torso.
“Are you hurt?” she asked once he was securely fastened.
“Negative,” he said.
“You sure?”
He looked up from his position on his knees. She wore a helmet and headlamp. It was getting darker, and her headlight blinded him, so he couldn’t really see her features under the helmet.
“I’m Cal,” she said. “Callie Sutton. Kluhane Bay Search and Rescue. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under more favorable circumstances, Sergeant Deniaud.” She smiled—he could see that much below the glare of her headlamp. A big, wide grin full of white teeth.
Irritation punched through Mason. Callie Sutton’s apparent conviviality in the face of his having sent a planeload of evidence into a raging river was the last fucking thing he needed.
“Did you see any sign of survivors?” she asked.
“Negative. But I can’t be sure. The pilot looked like she’d been dead awhile.”
“She?”
“Could have been male, but the earring made me think female.”
“Right. We can start a search downriver at first light. Sending my guys out in the dark will risk lives, especially in these conditions. There’s a storm moving in. And this section of the Taheese is dangerous in high water. Come, let’s get you hauled back up. I’ve got someone to belay us from the top.”
Callie hooked him up with more ropes and carabiners. “You ever done this before?” she asked.
“Nope.” He was certain she could feel him shaking.
She gave him instructions. Mason struggled against vertigo and the blood thumping in his eardrums to focus on her instructions.
“Ready?” she asked.
He blinked against the light from her headlamp. “As I’ll ever be.”
She stilled for a moment, reading his fear, hearing it in his voice. “It’ll be fine,” she said gently. “Just relax and follow my lead.” She raised her gloved hand and made a big winding motion to whoever was handling the ropes from above. “Okay, bring us up!” she yelled.
He was swung out into the void.
Way to prove yourself to the new guys, Deniaud. Just don’t piss your pants now.
He’d managed to hide his acrophobia from his colleagues for twelve years. Mason figured it was all about to go downhill from here. To calm himself he called up a mental image of the bottle of whiskey waiting for him at the isolated waterfront cabin that was now his home. He told himself he could always just drink it all and walk into that goddamn lake if it all got to be too much.
THE LODGE PARTY
DAN
Saturday, October 24.
Dan Whitlock sat at the rear of the Executive Transit shuttle bus. His tour group had been on the road for two hours since leaving the Gateway Hotel at Vancouver International Airport. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
He needed a smoke. A drink. Or four. He glanced out the tinted window. Endless forests and mountains blurred past as the shuttle began to climb the twisting Sea to Sky Highway into the mountains. There were eight on the bus, including him, a tour guide, and the driver. They were headed for Thunderbird Ridge, a brand-new ski and golf destination resort north of Squamish due to open to skiers for the first time this year. But it was still autumn. Too late for golf, too early for skiing. A fresh dusting of snow coated the peaks, and it was cold out. Dan hated cold. He’d tolerated it once, but no longer. At age fifty-nine it hurt his joints. His gout played up.
He checked his watch yet again. Not too long now. He’d hit the hotel bar first or, at the very least, crack open something from the minibar in his room. Booze—everything on this junket—was on the house. Courtesy of the RAKAM Group, which was hosting the jaunt. The plan was for their group to overnight at the spanking-new luxury hotel in Thunderbird Ridge; then tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. they would board a chartered West Air floatplane and fly to a high-end wilderness lodge and spa located at a secret destination in the BC interior. There they would be wined and fine-dined, be given treatments like Swedish and hot stone massage, and enjoy outdoor saunas by the lake. Or they could “luxuriate” in front of wood fires in “architecturally designed” waterfront cabins for ten days, surrounded by nothing but “nature” plus room service and open bars. Dan had won the trip at a casino function in July.
From having spoken to the other tour participants over a buffet breakfast at the Gateway Hotel this morning, he’d learned that the Forest Shadow Wilderness Resort & Spa had yet to officially open to guests, but the new managers were seeking to “partner” with businesses that offered services like housekeeping, catering, security, and expertise in advertising to niche markets. To this end, several professionals were being flown out to undergo the “lodge experience” and decide whether they in turn wanted to put in tenders for long-term contracts.
Dan didn’t much care either way who was there for what reason. He’d accepted the prize because he never turned his back on a freebie. Ever. Especially when it came with booze and high-end cuisine, and words like luxuriating. He was a run-down old private investigator who’d catered for most of his life to clients who generally crawled out of some gutter, so it wasn’t like he was going to be able to afford anything like this out of his own pocket. Besides, he might get lucky. He’d be rubbing shoulders and schmoozing with some rich folk—real influencers. And that could lead to business opportunities. Even rich folk did dirty shit. And dirty-shitters needed PIs like him to clean up their crap—good old gumshoes who operated beneath the radar and around the legal fringes. Even PIs from top law firms sometimes passed the shady stuff under the table to him.