Oskar was waiting for Callie when she and Mason reached the opposite side of the avalanche chute.
“I found some more tracks,” he said. “The Survivor Five are getting tired. Shuffling. Looks like they stopped and rested again for a while on this end of the chute.”
She looked up at the climb ahead that wound through the trees. Mason’s gaze followed hers.
“I can hear rushing water,” he said.
She nodded and took out her map. Callie clicked on her headlamp to study it because the twilight was thickening. “There’s a deep gorge on the other side of that ridge we’re aiming for.”
“Something they could cross?” Mason asked.
Callie exchanged a glance with Oskar. He said, “By the sound of that rushing water . . . we’ll have to see.”
Urgency tightened in Callie. “If they couldn’t cross the water in the gorge, they might have camped up on that ridge for a while. We might even find them up there. If the Survivor Five left the lodge right after the deaths of Bart Kundera and Katie Colbourne, given the coroner’s estimation of time of death, they could have been out here a week already. That’s a long time to endure wet cold without wilderness smarts. Plus, Dr. Bodine would likely have started showing signs of liver failure.”
“If he’s still alive,” Oskar said.
Callie folded her map. Gregson gave Trudy some water. And the rest of the crew clicked on their headlamps before entering the last stand of forest that lay between them and the plateau at the gorge.
When they’d navigated through the forest and arrived at the ridge, breathing hard, they were met with a big stone plateau partially covered by a rock overhang. It was fully dark, but evidence showed the Survivor Five had indeed camped here. They’d managed to make a small fire from dry wood likely found under the rock overhang. A wrapper from a tin of soup lay near the ashes. In the ashes was a burned tin that had likely held the soup.
Trudy alerted on a bloodied piece of tissue under the overhang, and Gregson called Mason over.
Mason crouched down and studied the tissue under the beam of his headlamp. “Someone injured themselves,” he said, photographing and bagging the tissue and securing it inside his pack along with the other evidence he’d gathered.
“Possibly someone got hurt crossing that avalanche chute back there,” Callie said, shrugging out of her pack. She downed water from her canteen, wiped her mouth. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Oskar said, “Given that they’re not here, they must have found a way to cross that gorge.”
“We’ll have to check it out in daylight,” said Callie. “Maybe when they came through, there was not much flow coming down.”
By the light of headlamps, hunting spotlights, and gas lanterns from their packs, they set up camp in the cover of the rock overhang. They found dry wood under the cover. Oskar and the techs built a campfire alongside the ashen remains of the one the Survivor Five had made.
They ate MREs to the sound of the thundering water, hidden from them by the blackness of night.
As the flames of their campfire began to dwindle, Callie got to her feet and went to look for more wood deeper under the overhang where the rock ceiling angled down low, and where windstorm debris had collected near the back.
As she crouched to gather up an armful of little branches and twigs, something white caught the beam of her flashlight. She stilled and bent closer. It was a crumpled ball of lined paper.
Callie set down her pile of firewood and fished the ball of paper out from where it lay under the area of the overhang too low to enter. She carefully opened it.
Her heart quickened.
“Mason!”
THE SEARCH
MASON
Anxiety speared through Mason as he heard Callie call his name. He hurried toward the sound of her voice, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off rock formations and thick fog. He found her crawling out from the back of the cave, where the overhang sloped and narrowed to a tight V.
“The note,” she said quietly as she reached a spot where she could stand to her full height. With a gloved hand, she handed him a crumpled piece of paper. “I found the rest of the note. It was in the back of the cave with the other windblown detritus.”
He took a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, snapped them on, and took the crumpled piece of paper from her.
He read the scrawled words under the light of his headlamp. The words started where the paper had been ripped out of the notebook they’d found in the lodge.
. . . nd help. Steven Bodine is sick. We believe he ingested some death cap mushrooms. We don’t know how it happened. We believe someone came into the lodge and put mushroom pieces into the bowls that were left standing while we attended to Katie Colbourne, who we found hanged upstairs. Steven is in a lag phase now. Hasn’t got much time. Already signs of yellowing in his eyes.
Jackie Blunt and the de Havilland Beaver are missing.
Bart Kundera and Katie Colbourne are both dead. Murdered.
We are being hunted.
We have been lured, and trapped. In a hurry now—argued about leaving. Deborah twisted her ankle on the first day, and it’s not that strong. Don’t know if the killer is out there and will come after us. We have a gun. We have taken water and supplies. We can keep a watch on each other in case one among us has done this. But Steven will die without help.
He might have a week or two at most. Trying to reach Kluhane Bay is better than sitting here and doing nothing and being picked off.
We have tried to preserve bodies for police in freezer.
Please help. Please hurry. Heading west around lake. Hope to reach hospital in small town of Kluhane. Praying that rescue comes and we are found before that.
Signed:
Monica and Nathan McNeill
Stella Daguerre
Deborah Strong
Steven Bodine
Wednesday, October 28.
“Seven days ago,” he said quietly. “You were right about their reasons for leaving shelter, Callie.”
Mason read the note again.
“Why do you think it was ripped out?” Callie asked. “Why do you think it was left here?”
He exhaled, his breath clouding in the beam of his headlamp. “That it was found here implies one of the group ripped it from the notebook. And perhaps dropped it here in error, or tried to dispose of it. The logical assumption is that one among the Survivor Five does not want help to come.”
Callie swore softly. “So one theory would be that one of the Survivor Five is the mastermind—the person who lured them to the lodge. The person who is playing some kind of psychological game.”
“And then killing them, one by one,” he said.
He read the note once more. His guess was one of the women had written this. Maybe Monica, given her name was signed first.
“Whoever wrote that appears to be unaware that Jackie Blunt was stabbed to death and on that plane,” Callie said.
“Or feigning ignorance. I need to call this in,” Mason said.
Callie nodded and bent to retrieve her load of small branches and twigs. “Want coffee?” she called as she gathered up her armload of fuel for the campfire. “I know it’s late, but—”
“Would love some.”
It had finally stopped raining for a while, so Mason walked a short way from the camp and climbed a rocky rise to where there was no rock or tree cover to mess with satellite reception. It was also slightly out of earshot from the rest of the group he’d left chattering around the campfire.
Sergeant Gord Fielding, the detective leading the “RAKAM party” investigation, answered on the second ring. He’d been on standby for a progress update from Mason’s search group.
Mason informed Fielding about the note and gave him the location of their camp. The coordinates would be relayed to the helicopter that Mason could now hear thudding faintly in the dark somewhere behind the clouds. Fielding told Mason that the chopper crew had begun searching with infra
red to the west side of the gorge, where Callie and her team felt the Survivor Five could be headed. The idea was for the chopper to work back in a grid pattern to where Mason and Callie were now located.
“Trace shows that subjects were moving slowly at this point,” Mason said. “But signs remain that all five were still alive and on the move from this GPS location—no evidence so far to indicate otherwise.”
Fielding gave Mason a radio frequency with which to communicate directly with the chopper.
“We’ve learned that Franz Gottman owned the Forest Shadow Lodge property through a numbered company registered in BC,” Fielding said. “Gottman held dual American and Canadian citizenship. Owned several properties both in California and in BC, including the lodge on Taheese Lake, and a several-acre spread worth upward of ten million on Galiano Island.”
“Owned?” Mason said. “As in past tense?”
“He’s deceased,” Fielding said. “Died August fifth of this year. Cancer. At the age of eighty-three.”
“Are the properties going through probate? Is there a beneficiary?”
“Seems all his real estate is nonprobate assets. Rates and taxes are still being paid on all his BC holdings by the numbered company. We’re securing a warrant for disclosure of the principal beneficiaries of that company, and we started searching his Galiano property late this afternoon. The Galiano estate was listed as Gottman’s last primary address. I will keep you updated as information comes in.”
“What else can you tell me about Gottman? He have family?” Mason asked, moving a little higher on his outcrop to improve reception. Fog dampened his skin and formed droplets on the bill of his cap.
“Billionaire. Worked in film and television. The mastermind behind two highly successful reality television shows: Wild Among Men and Tribal. He also provided financing for computer games development. Gottman went into the film business after obtaining a master’s in psychology, then an MBA. Harvard. Stanford.” There was a pause as Fielding appeared to consult his notes. “Never married. No children on record. A gay-rights activist when he was younger. Gottman has a record. Was arrested and charged for assaulting a police officer twenty-five years ago during a protest march. Also had a stalking charge. He apparently had a series of long-term relationships with various males. Retired at age sixty-five, after which he traveled and funded smaller television pilots, independent films. Liked hunting, sailing. Flew his own plane. De Havilland Beaver Mk 1.”
“Where’s Gottman’s aircraft now?”
“Not on his Galiano property. The house has been standing empty for about six months. We’ve located his housekeeper, who says she continues to receive monthly checks from the same numbered company. She claims Gottman was admitted to a hospice in February, but he asked her to keep honoring her cleaning contract until she was instructed to do otherwise.”
“Even after he died?”
“She didn’t know that he’d passed. Only that she kept getting paid by direct deposit.”
Mason frowned.
“Have you found any links between Gottman’s numbered company and the company that funded this Forest Lodge and spa junket on behalf of the so-called RAKAM Group?”
“Investigation on that front is ongoing.”
“Any links emerging between Gottman himself and the missing and murdered RAKAM guests?”
“Negative so far. Closest we’ve come is that Stella Daguerre’s West Air charter operation is based on Galiano Island.”
“That’s a significant coincidence.”
“West Air is basically a one-pilot show with one admin employee—a male who also lives on Galiano. We’re questioning him tomorrow. So far we know that Daguerre divorced five years ago and is now going by her maiden name.”
“What was her married name?”
“Marshall. We’ve located her ex, Stuart Marshall. An RCMP officer will be visiting him at his North Van home tomorrow.”
Mason saw a beam of light coming around the rocks—Callie. Almost simultaneously he smelled coffee. And coffee had never smelled as good as it did right now.
Callie handed him a steaming travel mug as he listened to Fielding. He mouthed the words Thank you and motioned for her to wait. Mason wanted to update her in private before they rejoined the rest of their party. He trusted Callie with the sensitive details of this investigation. Also, some small details might help her predict the actions in the wilderness of their missing subjects.
“Any other connections emerging, any possible motives?” he asked Fielding as Callie seated herself on a rock nearby.
“Katie Colbourne was a well-known television news reporter,” Fielding said. “She could have made enemies. We’re delving into stories she covered during her tenure with CRTV, looking for anyone she might have upset by her coverage.” A pause as Fielding spoke to someone else on his end. The thudding of the helicopter searching in the distance grew louder. Fielding came back on.
“Amanda Gunn remains a key person of interest. She was the primary point of contact with each of the victims and facilitated the trip. She also had opportunity in the death of Dan Whitlock—she was aware of his shellfish allergy. Bart Kundera . . . he had an older brother linked to organized crime. The brother is deceased. We’re interviewing Kundera’s wife tomorrow.” Another pause as Fielding consulted his files.
“Ontario Provincial Police are talking to contacts of the McNeills in Toronto. The couple used to live in BC, in the Kitsilano neighborhood of Vancouver. Dr. Nathan McNeill taught at Simon Fraser . . .” A pause. “There’s a link here between Monica McNeill and Dr. Steven Bodine—both served on the board of a children’s charity foundation. They might well have known each other prior to this trip. We’ll follow this up with the McNeills’ adult children. The older McNeill son told an officer on the phone this morning that his mother had been hospitalized for a period of four weeks about thirteen years ago. A mental breakdown of some sort. It was after that episode that the McNeills made lifestyle changes and relocated to Toronto. Dr. Bodine is divorced. Ex-wife has remarried and lives in Paris. Jackie Blunt—there’s no indication she knew or worked for the McNeills in Ontario. She’s an ex–West Vancouver PD officer. Resigned from the WVPD amid rumors of alcoholism, which was allegedly impacting her performance on the job. An old WVPD colleague of Blunt’s claims that before relocating to Ontario to work in security, Blunt did jobs for a private investigator—Dan Whitlock.”
Mason whistled softly. “Interesting connection there.”
“Yeah. Following it up. Whitlock is ex–Vancouver PD. He’s known to the police. Seems he crossed lines a few times with his PI work.”
“What about Deborah Strong?” Mason asked.
“In attempting to locate her next of kin, we learned she legally changed her name to Deborah Strong. She was previously known as Katarina Vasiliev. Daughter of Russian immigrants. Born in a small farming community in northern Alberta. Father, mother, and two brothers deceased. One older brother alive, who still lives on the family farm. He told RCMP in Alberta the family lost contact with Katarina when she ran away from home in her teens. But her staff at her cleaning company gave us the name of her fiancé—Ewan Redmayne. He’s currently serving with the Canadian Air Force and is on an RCAF tour of duty in the Arabian Sea—maritime security and counterterrorism ops. We contacted him through CAF channels yesterday. He’s on his way home.”
Mason thanked Fielding and signed off. He sat in silence for a moment, processing as he listened to the sound of the helicopter moving back and forth, hidden by the dark and low clouds.
Callie came to sit beside him. “All okay?”
He sipped his coffee. Smiled. “Damn, this is good.”
She grinned. A warmth filled him. Along with a sense of a bond. He updated her with the information Fielding had given him.
“Wow,” she said softly. “Curiouser and curiouser. So Stella Daguerre, who used to be Marshall, might have known Franz Gottman?”
“Galiano is a small island. It woul
d be hard to live there and not at least know about an old eccentric billionaire living on an over-ten-million-dollar estate.”
“Plus, she’s a pilot. And he had a plane.” She fell silent. Water dripped from rocks and nearby trees. “I wonder who else is linked to this company that has kept paying Franz Gottman’s bills,” she said. “Surely Gottman’s assets did not go into his estate, or probate. His numbered company, and whoever is behind it, must have had right of survivorship.”
Mason nodded and finished his coffee.
“Deborah Strong, a.k.a. Katarina, is also an interesting one. It’s also notable that Jackie Blunt and Dan Whitlock were connected. Both are dead, and both worked at some point in the PI business in Vancouver,” Mason said.
“Well, if someone had to dream up a bizarre scenario that included luring and trapping people in a remote wilderness lodge, and then messing psychologically with their heads, my money is on the mind that created those two reality shows. Did you ever watch them?”
“No.”
“That was their premise. Like Survivor, or most reality shows, really—trap a bunch of people together, throw in some challenges, and see how they turn on each other. And there can only be one winner, one who outwits, outlasts, and outplays the others.”
He snorted softly. “Except the rhyme at the lodge says, ‘Maybe there shall be none.’”
THE SEARCH
CALLIE
Thursday, November 5.
The radio call came in the darkest hours before dawn. The military helicopter had detected infrared activity.
Callie listened—they all did, quietly creeping out of their tents as Mason took the call.
“Signs of wildlife activity,” said their SAR spotter from the military craft.
Her pulse quickened. She exchanged a glance with Oskar, who was pulling on his cap against the rain that had started to fall again softly in the night.
“Could be wolves.” The voice came through static. “Or maybe coyotes, but we think they’re bigger. In a pack. Looks like seven of them.”
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