The woman in the seat in front of him turned around and smiled. “I so love a secret, don’t you?”
Her name was Monica McNeill. A breathy brunette in her early fifties with perfect makeup. She was married to the balding dude sitting beside her, Dr. Nathan McNeill, a professor of mycology at the University of Toronto. Monica was a grocery-chain heiress who’d moved her family empire into the whole foods/organic era and made a killing out of her Holistic Foods chain. Her company now owned “green” supermarkets in pretty much every city across the country. Holistic Foods also boasted a catering arm. Which was why she’d been invited on this junket.
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.