FORTY-TWO
When she opened her eyes, the wolves were gone. She’d dozed off, her face flattened against the tree trunk, her cheek bark-scraped and numb from the cold. She felt the congestion in her lungs, thought, I shouldn’t be out in this weather. I need my therapy. This could turn into pneumonia. The snow fell even harder than before, but now she could see.
Dawn had come, the sky a few shades shy of black, and the muscles in her arms were strained from clinging to the tree.
Devlin took her time climbing down, and when her boots finally touched the ground, the powder rose above her knees. She walked to the edge of the woods and looked down toward the lake, the world all snow and wind, the utter silence terrible. She wanted to follow her father’s tracks to the lake’s edge, but they’d been covered in snow. Besides, that would put her out in the open, and for all she knew, the wolves were lying in wait for just such an opportunity. She’d have to stay in the trees.
Devlin walked along the forest’s edge, paralleling the lake, her coughing fits coming more frequently. Every few minutes, she’d stop to listen for the wolves or her father calling her name. Often, she thought she heard him, but it was only wind and her own longing.
She walked for an hour, the open space between the lake and the woods narrowing, the sky lightening toward morning and the snow still falling, harder than before, if that were possible. She realized there must be a leak in her boots, because her feet were wet and she couldn’t feel her toes. She was hungry, thirsty, more afraid and unsure with every passing moment.
Devlin was contemplating turning around, trying to find her way back to the tent, when she broke out of the trees and saw it. For a moment, she forgot the pain in her legs and lungs, the fear of being alone in the wilderness. Oh, thank you. She’d seen something like this before, and it took her a moment to recall where. The summer after her mother’s disappearance, she and her father had taken a road trip. One of their stops in the Pacific Northwest had been Crater Lake, and there was a lodge on the rim of that caldera that bore a striking resemblance to what stood a half mile in the distance, on the shore of this unnamed Alaskan lake.
It was a sprawling five-story tower with projecting four-story north and south wings, some of the windows glowing with what appeared to be candlelight.
She took shelter under a massive spruce tree, weighing her options. She didn’t remember for sure, but she thought the pilot was flying back to pick them up sometime tomorrow afternoon. In the face of wolves and the blizzard and the cold, her choice was easy. Just check it out. I’ll die if I stay out here. Besides, maybe Dad and Kalyn are inside.
She didn’t like leaving the cover of the forest, but with the snow coming down so hard and all visibility shot, she figured it hardly made a difference.
She was wading through the snow now, up to her thighs, and she was as close to the inner lake as she’d yet come.
Two floatplanes were tethered to a nearby pier, so blanketed in snow, the only parts showing were slivers of their amphibious floats just above the surface of the water.
The facade of the lodge loomed ahead—an ornate porch of fir pillars, a huge wooden door, those eerie candlelit windows, behind which she thought she saw shapes moving.
A howl rose up from the other end of the lake, and in light of her recent encounter, it was the most horrifying thing she’d ever heard.
Devlin worked her way through the snow toward the lodge, but instead of heading directly for the porch, she made for the south wing, close enough now to see the construction. The first floor had been built of stone, and the top three stories shingled, a handful of which had peeled away. Long, steep eaves sagged down from the roof, occasionally sloughing off enormous blocks of snow.
She smelled wood smoke as she worked her way around the chimney to the back side of the south wing. There were few windows cut into the stone of the first floor, and she ran her hand along the rock as she moved toward the veranda that extended from the back of the central building.
The steps leading up were buried, and she didn’t want to climb them.
Another howl split the silence, much closer now. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the wolves emerge from the storm.
She saw an opening beneath the veranda. Struggling thirty more feet through drifts, she finally stepped under the veranda, out of the snow. On bare ground again, she took a moment to brush the powder from her parka and pants and to shake it out of her hair.
She approached the opening.
A set of stone steps descended underground to a wooden door, and she followed them down, put her gloved hand on the door handle, turned it slowly, but not slowly enough to prevent the horrendous squeaking from the accumulation of rust. She pushed and the door swung open, creaking on hinges that should have been replaced decades ago.
The smell of stale air overwhelmed her. She had no flashlight, so she opened the door as far as it would go, now smelling other things, including the acrid, sharp stench of urine. What light fell through the open doorway did little to illuminate the cellar. There were old tools hanging on one of the walls—scythes and machetes, a pitchfork—and cracked leather saddles, grinning bear traps with giant metal teeth. A wrought-iron staircase spiraled up out of the center, disappearing into the darkness above. Glancing at the far left corner, Devlin spotted something that gave her pause—large metal cages, their doors thrown open, water bowls inside, and pieces of bone lying on the moldy straw.
Devlin proceeded into the cellar, still trembling with cold as she stopped at the foot of the spiral staircase, put her hands on the railing, and gave it a little shake. Seemed sturdy enough.
She took the steps one at a time, ascending out of the cold, rank filth of the cellar. Soon she was climbing in total darkness, enveloped in a silence beyond anything she’d known, the humming in her head like transformers in the middle of nowhere.
The stairs spiraled up and up, farther than she’d anticipated. Then she walked into something, reached out, ran her hands along the rough surface of a door. She groped around, finally got her hands on the doorknob.
That it wasn’t locked surprised her.
FORTY-THREE
Devlin stepped into a study, let the cellar door close softly behind her. The room was gloriously warm, a fire burning in the hearth. The ceiling must’ve been fifteen feet high, and there were bookshelves built into the walls and filled with leather-bound volumes, the spines lettered in small gold calligraphy. Leather chairs and ottomans stood grouped around the fireplace. An Elie Bleu Medaille humidor occupied an end table.
The fire was low, only a few logs remaining. Devlin sat on the hearth, removed her gloves, and held her hands to the heat. Her heartbeat had finally slowed.
She glanced around the room. A door led out of the study, presumably into the rest of the lodge. French doors lined the back wall, and looking through the glass, she glimpsed the veranda, its surface buried in snow.
Her snow pants and parka made too much noise, so she stood up and took them off, left them in a pile beside the cellar door. She was finally warm, and the urge to cough seemed to have dissipated.
Devlin walked to the door leading out of the study, stood for a moment with her ear against it, listening. There was only silence, and the occasional snap as sap boiled off in the fire. She put her hand on the doorknob, turned it quietly, pulled the door open.
The room she stepped into was an enormous lobby, fifty feet high from floor to ceiling, with a freestanding fireplace rising up the middle of it. Its floor was made of polished stone, and open staircases ascended on either side, giving access to the north and south wings.
Her footsteps echoed as she crossed to the other end and stood gazing up the staircase, then down the first-floor corridor of the north wing, which glowed with points of candlelight. Something echoed above and behind her on the third or fourth level of the south wing—footfalls perhaps.
She walked around to the stairs and started to climb, the creak of the steps r
everberating through the cavernous lobby.
The fourth-floor corridor was empty and quiet as death, two dozen globes of firelight dancing through the tops of iron sconces. She walked into the corridor, its floor plushly carpeted, passed closed doors with brass numbers.
Halfway down the corridor, she noticed a peephole below the number designation on each door, and one in particular drew her attention, because she could see light coming through it. She stopped walking, crept up to the door of 413, and put her ear to the wood. She could hear something coming from inside, but it was soft, indiscernible. She was at the level of the peephole, and when she looked through it, she gasped.
It was installed backward, the room all shadowy blue save for the orange coils of a kerosene heater and the candle sitting on the windowsill, its flame restless, flickering. Shapes and details came into focus—a bed and dresser, a desk by the window. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she realized there was someone lying under the bedcovers. The body was turned away from her, but she could see the person’s breath pluming in the cold.
Something crackled above Devlin’s head, and the entire lodge seemed to rumble.
Up and down the corridor, recessed ceiling lights flickered to life, one after another, and the warm breath of central heating pushed up into her face through a large vent in the floor.
She proceeded to the end of the corridor, just an empty alcove with a big window and a doorway leading to a set of stairs.
Starting down the stairs, she heard a noise coming from the lobby. It sounded like footsteps creaking on wood. She continued down, emerged from the stairwell into the third-floor alcove, and peered around the corner.
Something was moving toward her down the corridor, and as it passed under the illumination of a ceiling light, she saw it was a man in a black jumpsuit. He had a red bandanna tied around his left bicep and held a pump-action shotgun, its strap dangling from his shoulder. He was tall and blade-thin, wore a Stetson, and had long hair flowing down over his shoulders.
She ducked back into the stairwell, went down to the first floor, and ran up the corridor and back into the lobby.
Beside the library was an archway she hadn’t noticed before. She headed toward it, and as she went through it, she passed an opening on her right that led to another staircase.
Thirty feet on, the passage terminated at a thick wooden door, and just ahead, it opened to the left.
She stopped, glanced around the corner into a high-ceilinged dining room, in the center of which stood a table expansive enough to seat ten comfortably on each side and two at each end. Its centerpiece was an exploding bouquet of greenery—native flora. An immense candelabra stood near each end, the candles burning. The set of chairs looked terribly expensive, and a chandelier hung down from high above, fifteen feet above the table.
At the far end of the dining room was another massive fireplace, big logs roasting within.
Light filtered in from windows twenty feet up, the wall below adorned with numerous trophy mounts—moose and caribou with cartoonishly huge racks, a pair of wolverines, Dall sheep, a grizzly bear.
Out in the lobby, a bell tolled—the light, rapid announcement of a meal.
She retreated from the dining room and entered the passage just in time to hear footsteps on the nearby staircase, accompanied by the voices of men.
Devlin turned and slipped back into the dining room, realizing as she did that sound was now emanating from the double doors to the left of the fireplace.
Running water, dishes clanking—kitchen noise.
She scanned the dining room, saw no place to hide. A long dry sink was pushed flush against the west wall, the kitchen was occupied, and there was nothing larger than a potted spruce tree behind which to take cover.
People were coming, and her legs had begun to weaken. She felt a deep shuddering behind her knees.
Devlin did the only thing she could.
FORTY-FOUR
Through the forest of chair legs, she watched them come—disembodied feet and legs, at least half a dozen pairs, strolling into the dining room. They didn’t immediately take seats at the table, congregating instead at the dry sink, beckoned by the constellation of exotic glass bottles.
“Bloody Mary, Sean?”
“Absolutely.”
“Looks like we’ve got Diaka, Grey Goose, some Russian shit.”
“Gotta go with Diaka.”
Crouched under the table, she watched a man in khaki slacks standing at the dry sink, carving up a lime and twigs of celery.
“Want one, Zig?”
“No, I’m gonna sip on this Pasión Azteca. Can’t believe they scored a bottle of this tequila.”
“I didn’t even see that.”
“I’ll pour you one.”
Breakfast smells had begun to waft in from the kitchen—bacon, brewing coffee, eggs, frying pancake batter.
Someone said, “Boys, to decadence.”
Glasses banged into one another.
“Damn, that’s smooth.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
“You believe how much snow fell overnight?”
Footsteps could be heard from the passage, and Devlin glanced through the chair legs just in time to see a pair of boots and blue-jeaned legs stroll into the dining hall, followed by a voice that boomed over the others.
“Gentlemen! Welcome! Glad you all made it here ahead of the storm!”
The man stopped at the end of the table, his legs so close, Devlin could have reached out and touched them.
The other men drifted over from the dry sink, said their greetings—slap of hard handshakes, small talk of the raging blizzard.
“My brother, Paul, is working on a busted generator, so we probably won’t see him until lunch. But meantime, everybody have a seat, please.”
Devlin crawled toward the fireplace as the chair legs squeaked across the marble, legs swinging under the table, one boot nearly striking her face.
She settled just out of range of the nearest leg as that voice boomed again: “Everybody good on drinks?”
Grunts of affirmation.
“Breakfast will be out shortly, so let me officially welcome each of you to the Lodge That Doesn’t Exist.”
The men laughed conspiratorially.
“I’m Ethan, and a couple of you have been here before, but there’re a few things I need to discuss up front with the newbies. We run on generators here, and they shut down automatically from midnight to six-thirty A.M. We’ll probably shut them down quite a bit earlier tonight. When we go dark, feel free to use candles and lanterns. You should have a stash in your room. You wanna hunt, fish? Gonna be colder than fuck, but either Paul or I will be more than happy to take you out. However, something tells me no one came here to hunt.”
More laughter.
Someone said, “Damn right.”
“We run a sensitive operation, to say the least. Maybe you’ve heard things. We had another group from Presidian over the summer.”
A gruff male voice: “Them boys had fun.”
“Well, now we come to the tough-love portion of my welcome, and after this, I promise it’s all about fun and meeting your every need. But we need to be clear on this point. You’ve all been to Vegas, I imagine. We’ve co-opted a famous Sin City saying for our little lodge. What happens in the middle of nowhere stays in the middle of nowhere.”
The men began to laugh.
“That’s not a fucking joke.”
Everyone shut up. The only sounds now were the quiet roar of the fire and melting ice clinking in drink glasses. Devlin’s eyes began to water as she fought back a cough.
“Maybe you noticed Gerald and Donald strolling the halls with Mossberg 590 combat shotguns. They’re here for your protection. But if for a second we think letting you go home might jeopardize our operation? If you strike us as the type who might grow a conscience, or blab to his buddies back home about all the fun he had in Alaska? We will put you in the pan of one of the grizzly traps in the c
ellar, spring it, and sink you to the bottom of the lake. Let you join our garden of guests who couldn’t be trusted. We also have other ways of discouraging you from discussing this place after you leave. I’m talking about photographs, videotapes. Pure, ugly blackmail.
“But you each paid two mil for five days here, so I’m assuming everyone’s enthusiastically on board.”
“Course.”
“Yeah.”
“Hundred percent.”
“Absolutely.”
“We know the deal.”
“Just thrilled to be here.”
Devlin heard something jingle, metal sliding across the surface of the table.
“Master keys, gentlemen. The south wing is your playground, and these open every door. Fourteen rooms on each floor. They’re not all occupied—we’re working on that—but many are. Peepholes are reversed, so feel free to browse. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. We have something for all tastes. We’ve even got a preggy on the fourth, if that’s your thing. Check the closets in your rooms. Should have a kimono hanging up, pair of sandals. I encourage you all to wear them for warmth and ease of access. Now, I’ve gotten blood work back from everyone, so you’re all good to go. Our women are healthy. Pristine. Protection’s not necessary is what I’m saying, but, of course, that’s entirely your call.”
“What if we want—”
“Why don’t you let me finish my spiel, Zig, as it’ll probably address any questions you have.”
“Sorry, of course.”
“Here’s our policy when it comes to your conduct with the women. You break it, you buy it. You injure someone so they have to be moved to the north wing to convalesce, we’re gonna assess you with appropriate damages. Now don’t misunderstand me. Follow your fancy, you twisted motherfuckers. No one’s telling you you can’t do anything you want. Seriously, go crazy. Just understand that on your last day here, there will be an accounting, and each of these women represents an investment of about one point five million. That’s our replacement cost.