“Let’s just say I have some very, very good colleagues, law enforcement friends, who saved me from myself. I took some time off work, went on a walkabout—rode a bike across Australia. But when I returned home, I couldn’t quite get back into things in the city, or my job. I couldn’t quite shed the ghosts. Didn’t even really want to.”
She sucked in a deep breath and gathered up Ben’s backpack as Mason’s earlier words reached back to her.
“It’s a good age. Enjoy the moments. Don’t let them slip by.”
We all have our stories, thought Callie as she unhooked Benny’s jacket from the coatrack near the door. We all have pain. Her landline rang. Callie checked her watch and frowned. During the off-season she took contract work for an adventure tour company. It was likely her boss calling about the budgets she’d sent in the previous week. She snagged the receiver of the wall-mounted phone near the kitchen.
“Callie here.”
“Callie, it’s Mason. We got an ID yesterday on the decedent from the plane. From the evidence, which is still coming in, there could be seven additional people lost out in the wilderness somewhere. We need to task SAR for a search.”
Ben came scooting and sliding in his socks along the floor and bumped into her leg. She handed him his coat, made a motion for him to put his boots on. “Who’s the pilot?” she asked.
“An Ontario resident named Jackie Blunt. ID yet to be confirmed with dental records or DNA.” A pause as he appeared to muffle the receiver while speaking quickly and quietly with someone else on the other end. He came back on. “Treating it as a homicide case. And she’s not a pilot.”
Callie’s brain reeled. “What do you mean?”
“The de Havilland was a West Air charter piloted by a woman named Stella Daguerre. Jackie Blunt owns a security company—she was a passenger. The aircraft departed the Thunderbird floatplane dock north of Squamish around eleven forty-five a.m. on Sunday, October twenty-fifth, ten days ago. Eight people on board total, including Blunt and the pilot. Destination unknown. North District headquarters has taken the lead on the case but has assigned me to task KSAR to undertake a search for the missing occupants, with a view to ramping up resources with possible assists from additional agencies as information continues to come in.” Another pause as he spoke again to someone else. Adrenaline bloomed in Callie’s blood, her interest hotly piqued, her brain scrambling facts together.
Ten days was a long time to be lost in the wilderness in this weather. Especially if injuries had been incurred in a crash. The chances of finding anyone alive were slim. Very slim. This was more likely to be a recovery mission.
“Can you come down to the detachment?” Mason asked. “I’m about to brief my officers, and we could use SAR input from the outset.”
“Mom, Rachel and Ty are here!” Ben yelled as he peeked out the long window next to the front door.
Callie pointed to his gloves and mouthed the words Put them on.
“Can you give me a few minutes?” she said into the phone. She needed to check if Rachel could pick Ben up from school when she collected Ty this afternoon. If this callout turned into a full-blown multiday operation, she’d need Benny to stay with Rachel’s family for a few days, as per her callout custom. Rachel and her husband were only too keen to help out in this capacity, and Ty and Ben got on like a house on fire, usually.
Callie also found it beneficial for Ben to see a good family unit in action, with both a mother and father figure. He usually came home in a positive frame of mind after his stays at Rachel’s house.
“I should be there in twenty,” she said.
Her phone went dead.
Callie stared at the receiver in her hand. All righty, then. She hung up and hurried into her mudroom. Outside the window, Rachel’s SUV chugged clouds of condensation into the crisp morning air. The precipitation had abated, but the sky hung low and the morning had dawned ominously dark. The wind blew dry snow across their front yard—another front coming in. The odds of finding anyone alive had just gone down several more notches in Callie’s mind. She grabbed her down coat, slid her feet into her Sorel boots, and opened the front door. Benny bulleted out toward the waiting SUV. Ty waved behind a fogged-up window as he approached. Callie followed Ben as Rachel rolled down her window to hear what Callie was coming out to say.
The wind cut cold against Callie’s cheeks as she zipped up her coat.
How in the hell did the owner of a security company end up dead in a pilot’s seat with a vintage knife plunged into her neck?
And where are the others?
THE LODGE PARTY
STELLA
Monday, October 26.
The day dawned bleak and steel gray. Outside Stella’s bedroom window, snow swirled, but the wind appeared to have died. The old house creaked like an arthritic senior awakening to the cold morning as she shrugged into her down jacket and zipped it up to her neck. She rubbed a hole into the frost that had formed on the inside of the window, but all she could see was the woodshed out back. Behind the shed, the forest climbed densely up the base of the granite mountain. Clouds continued to roll down the flanks in great, tattered swaths.
She pulled on a woolen hat, found her gloves, and exited the room. Wooden floorboards squeaked beneath her boots as she crossed over the threadbare Persian rugs that led to the stairs.
Downstairs the scent of woodsmoke hung in the great room. The coals in the hearth had grown cold and black. A sense of being watched seized Stella as she moved in front of the paintings and beneath the glass eyes of the mounted animal heads.
She stopped, glanced up at the balcony. No one was there, observing her. It was still too early for the others to have woken. She hesitated, then crossed quickly to the front door. She slid back the bolt, opened the heavy door, and slipped out.
The cold stole her breath. She had not expected such low temperatures at this time of year, despite having studied the forecast before flying. She hadn’t anticipated this much snow, either, or such low visibility. She couldn’t even see the lake or her plane from the porch of the old lodge.
Tugging her hat lower down over her ears, she started down the unkempt and snowed-over path through the heavy fog and softly falling snow.
As she passed beneath the totem poles, she glanced up. Flakes settled wet against her face. Her pulse quickened—she could have sworn the raven head on the bigger totem pole had been facing the water when they’d arrived. But the head now faced the lodge. She swallowed, an uneasiness filling her chest. The wind gusted, and both the head and the wings creaked and moved slightly.
It’s just the wind. That’s all. The top part of the totem is loose. It was possibly carved and added later.
She continued down the path, but she was unable to shake the sense of malevolence the bird head had given her. Another gust blew, and the totem groaned. She glanced back over her shoulder. The raven had turned to watch her, as if following her progress. The words Monica and Nathan had exchanged on the plane crept into her mind.
Looks like the Overlook.
The what?
That spooky hotel in that Stephen King novel.
Stella shook the notion, but she couldn’t quite suppress an image of topiary bushes moving closer and closer to the lodge in the snow, or stop herself from thinking that was what the totems were doing.
The fog was even thicker near the shore. The lake appeared invisible. She couldn’t see the dock stretching into the water, or her plane. A noise and movement came from her left. Stella spun to see a figure in black emerge from a swirl of mist and snow.
“Who’s there?” she said, heart beating fast. “Who is that?”
He came closer. It was the surgeon. Snow caked his black hat.
“Crap, you scared me,” Stella said, feeling oddly shaky. “What are you doing out here, Steven?”
He looked edgy. Disheveled.
“I . . . I couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d check out the path Bart told us about, before there was too much snow on
the ground, see if it went around to the other bay.” He wiped a clump of snow off his shoulder and dusted some clots of it off his hat. At this moment he looked a far cry from the slick plastic surgeon who’d roared his shining Jaguar convertible into the parking lot at the Thunderbird floatplane dock a day ago. It shouldn’t please her, but it gave Stella a punch of satisfaction to see the obnoxious man brought down a peg or two.
“Well, did you find anything?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It went to the bay all right, but it’s just another bay. Nothing else there. The path seemed to pick up from there and go farther into the woods. What about you? Where are you going at this early hour, Stella?”
“Down to the Beaver. I want to take a look at the radio again now that there is light, see if I can fix it.”
He swiped more moisture off his face, his nose running and reddened. “You think you can?”
“Depends on the damage.”
Worry tightened his features. “Maybe Bart can fix it,” said the man who could fix human bodies but appeared powerless and fearful right now. “Bart said he worked as a mechanic.”
“Sure. Maybe. He’s a guy who worked with cars, and I’m just a female pilot who works with avionics. I’ll ask him.” She turned to leave, but the doc hesitated, as if wanting something more.
“Look, it’s going to be okay, Steven,” she said. “Even if we can’t repair the radio, everything else on the plane is in good working order. We have spare gas. We have supplies to last us in the lodge. We have water, fire, shelter. We’ll fly out as soon as this storm clears.”
A look akin to gratitude crossed his face. “Can I help?”
“Coffee would be really awesome.”
His face darkened. The challenge reappeared in his eyes.
“For the whole group,” Stella added. “For morale. Waking up to fresh, hot coffee will really help.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’ll go put that kettle on—I saw a tin of instant in the cupboard.”
She continued down to the hidden water’s edge.
“And I’ll see if there’s something I can fix for breakfast!” he called after her.
“Coffee!” she yelled over her shoulder with a wave, and the lodge and Steven disappeared in another curtain of fog and snowflakes.
As Stella neared the water, she felt a clutch in her chest. The dock stretched crookedly out into the mist, but she couldn’t see the silhouette of her plane. She hurried onto the dock, slipped in slush atop moss, almost went down, but righted herself.
She reached the spot where she’d tied her aircraft.
Nothing.
Her heart started to bam against her ribs.
The only sign her de Havilland Beaver had ever been here was the red-and-yellow ropes hanging into the water where she’d secured them to the planks. The offshore wind had been strong during the night. Could the plane have worked free, assisted by the movement of swells and the listing of the dock? No. No way in hell. She knew her knots, knew how to secure things.
Adrenaline surged through her veins. Hurriedly she removed and pocketed her gloves. She crouched down in the slush and began to pull one of the ropes out of the lake, her hands freezing with the cold water. The end of one came up. It had been sliced clean through with a sharp blade. Stella moved fast to the other rope and began hauling it out. The end came up.
Fuck.
Also cut.
She froze as she felt the dock move. Stella spun her head around and glanced up. It was Bart, coming along the dock toward her.
“Christ, you scared me.”
“Where’s the plane?” he asked.
Stella came to her feet. “It’s gone.” She held up the sliced ends of the wet rope. “The floatplane is gone. Someone cut it free, and in that wind last night, it would have blown for miles down the lake. We have no fucking way of getting out of here.”
His gaze dropped to the rope ends. He looked confused. He tented his hand over his brow and peered into the thick weather, as if the mist might somehow part and reveal the plane bobbing out there on the lake. “It couldn’t have gotten far.”
Stella swore and dropped the rope ends back into the water. “Good one, Bart. Good one. There was a freaking offshore gale last night! Did you see from the air how long this lake is? That wind”—she pointed down-lake—“was blowing directly from the north and straight down the center of this fifty-kilometer-long body of water.”
“Why would anyone do this?” he asked.
“Because of the rhyme in the lodge, that’s why. Have you forgotten everything that was said last night? Someone wants to punish us. I woke up hoping it wasn’t true, but it’s for goddamn real now. We’re trapped. No cell reception, no radio, no way out.”
Bart looked up toward the lodge. “I mean,” he said slowly, “who in our group would do this? Because unless there is someone else here, lurking in these woods, someone among us cut these ropes.”
Ice trickled down Stella’s neck as the reality—the implication—of Bart’s words struck home. Her mind raced as she tried to think who in their group could have done this, because this changed everything. Until now, there’d been a way out, a way home. A link to normality. Now it was gone.
“Like Jackie said, a killer could be among us—one of us had to have done this.”
Stella angrily swiped snow from her face, her hands trembling a little. “Then they don’t have any goddamn endgame, do they? Because if they go and kill us off, how are they going to get out themselves? With no radio to fix, and no plane to escape with?”
“Maybe that is the endgame, Stella. Like the judge in Agatha Christie’s story. He killed himself.”
Emotion burned sudden and hot into her eyes.
Get a grip, Stella, get a goddamn grip. You’re the one who’s been telling everyone not to panic.
She sucked in a chestful of air and looked down the lake again, then at the ropes dangling into the water. She tried to center herself, think straight. Make a plan. But her plane, her lifeline, her comfort zone—it was gone. Really gone. And the realization speared fear into her heart. Her aircraft was her life. It defined her—Stella, the floatplane pilot. It was her freedom. It symbolized control. And now they were all well and truly trapped, and she couldn’t see a way out. Her confidence had been cut adrift with her plane.
She glanced at Bart’s face. But he was distracted, staring at something on the dock just past her.
Slowly, Stella turned to see what had snared his focus.
The snow at the far edge of the dock was pink and red.
Blood?
She moved quickly toward the red stains in the whiteness. She crouched down, touched a dark spot with her fingertips. There was more under the top layer of snow. A lot more. It felt sticky. She brought her fingers to her nose.
“Is it blood?” Bart asked.
“I . . . I think it is.” She came fast to her feet. “Bart, we need to get everyone together inside. We need to see that everyone is all right.”
Stella moved as fast as she dared over the slick and swaying dock, then began to run up the path toward the lodge.
THE SEARCH
CALLIE
Tuesday, November 3.
The civilian admin assistant at the Kluhane Bay RCMP detachment showed Callie to the briefing room.
“They’re expecting you,” said the woman as she held open the door.
Callie entered the incident room. The door shut behind her. Mason stood in front of a whiteboard mounted on the back wall. He was in uniform, an aura of command about him. At his side, on a stand, was a monitor linked to an open laptop on the desk in front of him. Hubb sat beneath the window at one of the three metal desks in the room, bulky in her bullet suppression vest. Jake Podgorsky, Mason’s other officer, was seated on a chair near her, his long legs stretched out.
“Callie, thanks for coming in.” Mason motioned for her to take a seat at one of the desks. She shrugged off her jacket, hung it over
the back of a chair, and perched her butt on the edge of a desk, crossing her arms over her chest. A massive topographical map of the area covered the wall to her left.
Hubb shot her a grin, and Podgorsky crooked up a brow in his typical lugubrious fashion. She nodded to them.
Mason clicked his laptop keys and fed an image to the monitor. A woman’s face filled the screen. Bleached, white-blonde hair cropped very short, intense dark eyes. Squarish face, solid neck. The rough and ruddy complexion of a drinker and possibly smoker, thought Callie. She judged the woman to be in her midfifties.
“Jacqueline—Jackie—Blunt,” Mason said, nodding toward the image. “Our decedent from the downed de Havilland Beaver Mk 1. Age forty-seven. A partner in Security Solutions, a close-protection and security company based out of Burlington, Ontario. She’s married to Elizabeth Krimmer, the other half of Security Solutions. Ontario Provincial Police are assisting our investigation out east. Krimmer flew in last night, and this morning she made a visual identification of the deceased. Krimmer claims Jackie Blunt is not a pilot, nor has Blunt ever learned to fly a plane.”
“So how in hell did she end up dead and strapped into the pilot’s harness in that Beaver?” Hubb asked.
“And you ID’d her from her phone data?” Callie asked. Anything she could learn about the subjects of a search would help her profile the missing, which in turn would offer up the highest-POD areas and help her direct SAR resources and formulate a search strategy.
“Our forensic techs have begun to retrieve some of the phone data,” Mason said, “including a few photographs and emails. The emails indicated the decedent was Jackie Blunt of Security Solutions. OPP contacted both the company and next of kin. Both confirmed Blunt had flown out west for a trip to an undisclosed location.”
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