“Oh, thank heavens,” Amanda muttered as the surgeon loped toward her.
“Amanda? You must be Amanda,” he said loudly.
Amanda reached forward to shake his hand. “So good to finally meet you in person, Steven.” Relief was palpable in the woman’s voice. But out of the corner of her eye, Stella saw Monica McNeill stiffen sharply at the surgeon’s arrival.
Intrigued, Stella turned to look. Monica’s face had paled. The woman glanced at her husband, who was opening his mouth to say something. But he shut it and frowned fiercely at Monica. Katie filmed the whole interaction while Jackie and Bart fiddled with their cell phones. Deborah seemed to shrink away from the bright, bold light cast by Dr. Steven Bodine’s shining presence. The plane engine growled. Stella wanted to get moving.
“Everyone!” Amanda raised her voice. “This is the last member to round out our party. Dr. Steven Bodine, who heads up the Oak Street Surgical Clinic, and who is looking to expand the clinic’s cosmetic travel business.”
“Stella Daguerre.” She held her hand out for his bag. “I’m your captain on this trip.”
The doctor’s eyes met hers. Stella felt a momentary challenge from the alpha male. His smile faded ever so slightly as he relinquished his hold on his brand-new backpack.
As she loaded his bag, she heard Dr. Steven Bodine say, “Monica? My God, what a surprise. It . . . it’s been an age.”
“Steven,” Monica said tonelessly. “This is my husband, Nathan.”
“We’ve met,” Nathan said brusquely as he gripped Steven’s hand. “At that fund-raiser, wasn’t it? The one your clinic organized for the children’s foundation. The minister of health was there.”
“I guess it was.” A glance at Monica. “Gosh. Spaced that event. It was a long time ago.” Steven thrust his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight. “What brings you guys to this junket? Food?”
“Potential catering contract,” Nathan said swiftly. Monica cleared her throat and looked away.
“And we still don’t know exactly where we’re going, do we?” Steven turned to Stella as she was securing the baggage door. “Stella?” He raised his voice over the engine as he addressed her. “Can you tell us where you are taking us all now—where this secret destination is?”
Oh, the Shining Gladiator, saving the group—leading the way. Beating his chest in the face of Mr. McNeill and his wife.
She dusted her hands on her pants. “That remains a surprise the RAKAM Group has asked me to keep.” Stella raised her own voice. “Okay, everyone, listen up.”
The group gathered close. “The cabin is climate controlled to ensure your comfort. Each seat is equipped with a harness.” She held one up to demonstrate. “There are advanced noise-canceling headsets hanging near each seat with which to enjoy music, as well as two-way communications with me.” She ran through the rest of the safety briefing.
“In the unlikely event the aircraft goes down in water, the most confusing challenge can be to orient yourselves underwater, and to find the exit while upside down. So when you take your seats, do take a moment to locate the exit in relation to your right knee.” She tapped her right thigh.
“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 ridin
g 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.”
Her gaze shot to a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs on a table beneath the window. “He got room service. He called for room service—did everyone know, did the morning staff know of—”
“Ma’am,” said the paramedic. “You need to step out of the room. The coroner is on his way. You need to leave everything as it is.”
“Coroner?”
“It’s protocol in an unexpected death.”
“Will there be an investigation? Will the coroner inform next of kin?”
“When we know who they are, and there’s always a death investigation in cases like this.”
Her knees buckled slightly. She couldn’t swallow. Absurdly, she wondered how this was going to look on her résumé. Would the RAKAM Group still consider her services in the future? What if it was her fault that he’d ingested shellfish? Or eaten food that had come into even the briefest contact with allergens?
The manager took her arm, but she shrugged him off. “I need to call my boss.”
Amanda marched out of the room and walked a short way down the corridor. She stopped and dialed the number she’d been given for her contact at the RAKAM Group.
It rang and rang. Then it clicked over to a recorded message.
“This number is no longer in service.”
She frowned, checked her phone. Had she pressed the wrong button? She tried to call again.
It rang four times, then came the same message. “This number is no longer in service.”
Dumbstruck, she slowly lowered her phone. The voice of Stella Daguerre, the pilot, echoed through her ear.
It’s just as well Dan Whitlock is not coming . . . My plane, as it’s configured, takes a maximum of eight including me, the pilot. Your boss was made aware of this when I was contracted. I made it clear. So how can there be an extra passenger if the RAKAM Group didn’t know Dan Whitlock was going to get sick and bail?
Amanda tried the number one more time.
“This number is no longer in service.”
THE LODGE PARTY
DEBORAH
Deborah Strong peered out the plane window. Beyond the yellow wingtip, ragged mountains speared up from shimmering lakes, and rivers cascaded and sparkled. Pristine snow lay thick upon the taller peaks. Brutal, brown avalanche scars were scored down the steeper flanks. The forests were dark green and endless. She saw no sign of human life anywhere. It was beautiful. Distant. Hostile. The plane banked sharply. Her stomach swooped and she turned away, feeling slightly nauseous, wishing she hadn’t downed that breakfast muffin so fast, because it was about to come up.
Deborah was seated at the very rear of the plane, right in front of a canvas curtain that divided the passengers from the luggage. Beside her, at the opposite window, sat the security woman, Jackie Blunt. Jackie had a really dark aura. Deborah found her intimidating. Every now and then she’d catch Jackie staring at her.
Katie Colbourne was seated in front of Deborah. Katie filmed out the window. Bart Kundera sat to Katie’s right. Deborah liked his looks. Handsome in a bold sort of way that could almost be ugly with a few genetic tweaks in another direction. Such was the lottery of life. Bart had won. And he had a good vibe. Easy smile. He appeared capable. Nice. Nice enough that Deborah had glanced at his ring finger. He wore a wedding ring. Of course he did. Not that she was looking, just that in her experience all the good ones were taken, and many of the not-so-good ones as well. She knew all about the not-so-goods.
The older married couple, Nathan and Monica McNeill, sat directly behind pilot Stella Daguerre.
Stella was all confidence and authority. Definitely the kind of attributes Deborah wanted of a pilot who took a heavy chunk of yellow-and-blue metal up into the sky, and who consequently held passengers’ lives in her hands. It amazed Deborah that this thing could even get into the air, and now that they were in the sky, it all actually felt quite graceful, especially with the high-end headphones canceling the raw, throaty growl and shuddering metal parts of the plane. There was something magnetic about Stella. She wasn’t pretty. Kind of hardened and gaunt, really. Perhaps it was her clear gray eyes, her cool silver hair cut pixie short, her slender, athletic physique that all combined to make her compelling. Perhaps it was her centeredness. Her self-assuredness. Her ease with being a strong and capable woman. Deborah admired that.
Stella was the kind of woman she’d want as a friend. But also the kind of woman Deborah felt was above her, and who might never deign to see Deborah as an equal should she even begin to make overtures. The cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Steven Bodine, sat in the copilot seat beside Stella. He’d made a beeline for that seat, not bothering to even feign a gesture of offering it to anyone else.
Deborah’s phone vibrated in her hands. She glanced down at the device. As soon as they had taken off and were safely in the air, she’d posted to her social media account one of the photos she’d shot at the floatplane dock. Already three little hearts showed under her post. She smiled at the sight of them.
“I thought the pilot said to put phones in airplane mode.”
Deborah’s head shot up at the sudden sound of the voice inside her headphones.
Jackie Blunt.
The woman was staring at her. There was a strange look on her rough face. A prickle of unease crawled up the back of Deborah’s neck.
“Still got reception, then?” Jackie asked, her voice once again coming in through Deborah’s headset. It felt too intimate, as if the woman were right inside her brain. Deborah nodded, heat flaring into her cheeks. She was both embarrassed and angry that Jackie had called her out via a system through which everyone on the plane could listen in.
&n
bsp; “I forgot,” Deborah said quietly, coolly, and she turned off her phone.
Jackie’s gaze dropped to the phone in Deborah’s hands. Deborah realized Jackie Blunt was studying not the phone, but the small tattoo of a swallow on the inside of Deborah’s wrist. Deborah quickly turned her wrist over and looked away. Her heart thudded. She felt as though this security woman had seen right into her, knew exactly who she was, where she’d been. What she’d done. Her therapist’s words filled her mind.
You do not need to be defined by the darkness of your past. You deserve a good life, just like everyone deserves a good life. You have atoned. You have a right to feel worthy.
Deborah sucked in the meaning of the words. She had no reason to fear Jackie Blunt. Zero reason to feel inferior to Stella Daguerre, or anybody. She had as much right and status on this junket as anyone else here. She was being considered for a high-end boutique housekeeping contract, and she’d worked her freaking butt off to get to this point. Harder than most would ever have to work, because she’d started in a shittier place than most. And she’d discovered she was good at the housekeeping business, good at managing staff, good at finding the right people to build her team. Good at making contacts in the industry. And through it all she’d met a wonderful man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. And she had a secret. She was carrying his baby. And when he returned home, she would tell him, and they would marry.
“You remind me of someone,” Jackie said quietly in her ear.
Deborah started. Slowly her attention returned to Jackie. The woman’s dark eyes narrowed as she studied Deborah. “Kat . . . Kata . . . Katarina, I think her name was.”
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