“If the exit is on your right while you’re upright, it will still be on your right even if the aircraft comes to rest in another position.”
She briefly covered underwater egress procedures.
“Remember to take a deep breath before being submersed underwater. Open your eyes. Orient yourself in relation to your remembered emergency exit. Get a firm grip on a reference point—you can’t do that with eyes closed underwater. If you’re seated beside an exit, wait until the water has filled three-quarters of the cabin before fully opening any exit. Release your safety harness only then. Using your hands, grip and pull yourself underwater to the exit, then pull yourself free from the cabin. Only after exiting, inflate the life preserver.” She explained where to find the life preservers and showed how to inflate one.
She waited as looks of concern crossed faces. Good, she needed them to absorb this and take it seriously. Deborah glanced nervously at the plane. Her hands were balled into fists. She was the one most afraid of flying, Stella guessed.
She quickly explained where to find the emergency locator transmitter, survival kits, first aid kit, fire extinguisher, and other safety equipment. She then demonstrated how to safely board and deplane.
“And remember, most important in any emergency or survival situation is to try to remain calm. Panic is always the biggest killer.”
As they began to board, she said, “No smoking. And please put your phones on airplane mode.” She smiled. “And welcome to West Air.”
“Oh, wait!” Jackie said, hurrying toward Amanda. She held her cell phone out to the guide. “Could you quickly take a photo of us all in front of the Beaver?”
The group gathered in front of the yellow-and-blue plane.
“Smile, everyone!” called Amanda. She shot a few images. “Deborah, move in a bit closer.” Amanda waved her hand. They shuffled into position closer to one another. “Say cheese, everyone!”
Everyone grinned. “Cheese.”
Amanda handed the phone back to Jackie, who fiddled with it as others commenced boarding.
“Instagramming?” Steven said to Jackie. “Posting your hashtag-mystery-tour, hashtag-flying-into-the-wild-wild-woods photo?”
She glanced up. Unsmiling, she said, “Facebook. And yeah, something like that. Before we lose cell service.” She pocketed her phone.
Once they were all aboard and the doors were secured and the moorings freed, Stella strapped herself into her harness. She taxied her plane out into the lake.
As they left the protected bay, wind ruffled the surface, and the plane began to rock on small swells. She opened the throttle, thinking again about the passenger list and about missing Dan Whitlock.
It was 11:45 a.m. by the time she lifted her bird into the air and felt the strength of the first crosswind. Via radio she reported in to West Air dispatch.
THE LODGE PARTY
AMANDA
Amanda Gunn hurried out of the Thunderbird hotel elevator onto the fourth floor. The hotel manager’s urgent call had come right after she’d seen off the tour group at the dock. She ran down the corridor, rounded the corner at speed, and was stopped dead by the tall frame of the manager. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his eyes watery, his cheeks red. He smelled of sweat.
“He’s gone, Amanda. I’m so sorry—he . . . he’s dead.”
Blood drained from her head. Her world spun. She reached for the wall to steady herself and stared, disbelieving, at the manager, who’d stopped her before she could reach Dan Whitlock’s room. She could see the door just beyond him. It had been propped open.
“What?” she said slowly.
“Dan Whitlock has passed. The paramedics tried everything, but he was gone before they got here.”
“How? What . . . I mean, what happened to him?” She’d been convinced her tour guest was just severely hungover, and she’d been frustrated—angry—with him. Worry crashed through her as she tried to see around the manager and in through the open door to Dan’s room.
It’s a terrible mistake. That’s all it is, just all a terrible mistake, has to be.
Around the side of the manager, she could see two EMTs bending over the prone shape of her charge on the hotel floor. Panic spiked through her. She pushed past the manager and entered the room. Amanda stalled. They were still working on him, still doing CPR, trying to bring him back. His skin was a pale blue. Like he’d been deprived of oxygen. Her heart began to beat up inside her throat.
“What happened?” she asked the manager again as he came up behind her. She swung around, glared up at him. “He wasn’t like this when I left him! He was just nauseous, throwing up. I . . . I just went down to the floatplane dock to see everyone off—how could this have happened so fast?”
“I don’t know,” said the manager, looking ashen himself save for two hot spots riding high on his cheekbones. “The guest went into medical distress and called down to reception about forty minutes ago. The desk staff on duty said no one spoke on the other end of the line. Just a weird breathing sound. They sent someone up to check on him. There was no answer when we knocked on his door, but our staffer heard choking and coughing, and a banging sound. He used a master key card to access the room.” The manager paused and regarded the heavyset man lying on the floor. He rubbed his brow. “The guest—Dan Whitlock—was found clutching both hands to his throat, choking, couldn’t breathe, going blue. Our staffer called 911 right away, from that phone next to the bed.” He pointed. “And then he tried CPR. The paramedics . . . they just got here, but they haven’t been able to do anything.”
“But . . . he had a hangover, he just had a headache.” She clamped her hand hard over her brow.
A prank. That’s what this is.
The bizarre thought took hold in Amanda’s brain. Denial. Anything but this. She latched on to it.
This is a test—like the pilot suggested. Part of the job interview. To see how I might handle a potentially stressful situation with very high-end, secretive clients who value their privacy. To see if I’m able to keep it quiet and treat it all respectfully and with elegance if they overdose on drugs or something.
She moved slowly toward Dan Whitlock’s body on the floor to ascertain for herself whether he was maybe alive and messing with her.
But one of the paramedics held her back, his hand firm on her arm.
“Let go of me!” she snapped, shaking him loose.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back. Please.”
Tears pricked into her eyes. “Can . . . can you tell me what happened?” she asked, quietly now.
“It looks like he went into anaphylactic shock.”
She stared at him. “Like, an allergic reaction?”
“We found a used EpiPen on the floor near his hand.”
“He’s deathly allergic to shellfish—he even told everyone at the buffet last night,” Amanda all but whispered. “It was on the form I sent them all to fill in. I was careful.” She spun to face the hotel manager. “You made it clear to your kitchen staff, didn’t you, that he was allergic?”
“Of course. It was also underscored to the buffet and serving staff. The seafood was kept well away from the rest of the food.”