The Last Resort
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Janice Kay Johnson
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18
Chapter One
Leah Keaton eased up on the gas pedal too late to prevent her right front tire from dropping into an epic pothole with a distinct clunk. She winced.
Along with a gradual rise in elevation, the road was getting narrower, the dense northwest forest reclaiming it. The roots from vast Douglas fir, spruce and cedar trees created a corrugated effect as they crumbled the pavement. Long, feathery limbs occasionally brushed the sides of her modest sedan. Pale lichen draped from branches. Thick clumps of ferns and wiry branches of what might be berries overhung the edges of the pavement.
Her mother could have been right, that this was a wasted and even unwise journey.
All of which was assuming, Leah thought ruefully, that she hadn’t taken a wrong turn. In her distant memory, a carved and painted wood sign had marked the turnoff to her great-uncle’s rustic resort in the north Cascade Mountains, not that far from the Canadian border. She reminded herself this was rain forest, which by definition meant wood rotted quickly. Once the sign fell, moss and forest undergrowth would have hidden it in a matter of weeks.
Forcing herself to loosen her grip on the steering wheel, Leah caught a glimpse of Mount Baker above the treetops. At not quite eleven thousand feet in elevation, Baker wasn’t the largest of the string of volcanoes that stretched from California to the Canadian border, but it was plenty imposing anyway with year-round snow and ice cloaking the mountain flanks. Leah remembered from when she was a kid seeing puffs of steam escaping vents at the summit, a reminder that Mount Baker still had the potential to erupt.
Weirdly, the memory relaxed her. This road felt familiar. If she was right, it would soon climb more sharply yet above a river carrying seasonal snowmelt that ultimately joined the larger North Fork Nooksack River. As a child, she’d hated the drive home from the resort because the edge was so close to the road, the drop-off so precipitous. She hadn’t trusted the rusting guardrail at all.
What if a tumultuous spring had undercut the cliff and the road no longer went all the way to the resort?
The tires of her car crunched onto gravel as the pavement ended. She had to go slower yet, because potholes and ruts made the way even more perilous.
Although he’d closed the resort something like fifteen years ago, Uncle Edward had continued living here until his death last fall. Had he really not minded navigating this road when he had to stock up on groceries? According to Leah’s mother, he’d declared flatly, “This is home,” and remained undaunted by the perils of living in such an isolated location as an old man.
“Stubborn as that old coot Harry Truman, who wouldn’t evacuate when Mount St. Helens blew,” Mom had grumbled, mentioning the name of a rugged individual who’d refused to leave the mountainside before the volcano erupted in 1980. “He’ll end the same way. You just wait and see.”
Leah’s dad had gently pointed out that, despite being in his nineties, Uncle Edward hadn’t displayed even a hint of dementia and therefore was fully capable of making his own decisions. Dad had shaken his head. “He’s lived up there most of his life. Imagine what it would be like for him to move to a senior apartment with busybody neighbors all around and traffic going by night and day.”
“But we could find him a nice—” Mom had broken off, knowing she’d lost the argument. She just didn’t understand her uncle, who’d spent his entire life in the north Cascade Mountains.
She did understand why he’d left the resort to Leah, the only one of his nieces and nephews who had genuinely loved vacations spent at the remote resort. Leah would have been happy to spend every summer there—at least until teenage hormones struck and hanging out with friends at home became a priority—but her mother refused to let her stay beyond their annual two-week family vacations spent in one of the lakeside cabins.
The road started to seriously climb, blue sky ahead. A minute later she saw the small river to the left, water tumbling over boulders and pausing in deep pools. This was July, the height of the melt-off on the mountain above. By fall, the water level would lower until barely a creek ran between rocky banks.
She stayed close to the steep bank on the right. After sneaking a few peeks at the guardrail in places it had crumpled or even disappeared, she decided she just might do the same thing coming down. It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet any oncoming traffic, for heaven’s sake. She could drive on whatever side of the road she wanted. And, while she’d brought a suitcase, sleeping bag and enough food to hold her for a night or two, she knew the old resort buildings might be so decrepit she’d have no choice but to turn right around and head back down the mountain. Uncle Edward had been ninety-three when he died. He wasn’t likely to have done any significant maintenance in many years.
Still...the location was great, the view of Mount Baker across a shallow lake and an alpine meadow spectacular. There’d even been a glimpse of the more distant Mount Shuksan, too. Backed by national forest, the land alone had to be worth something, didn’t it? She hoped Uncle Edward hadn’t envisioned her building up the resort again and running it; despite good memories of the stays here, she’d grown up in Portland, Oregon, gone to college in southern California. Wilderness girl, she wasn’t.
Learning about the inheritance had given her hope. She’d been dreaming of going back to school to become a veterinarian. The cost was one factor in her hesitation. Animal doctors didn’t make the kind of income people doctors did, but finished four years of graduate school with the same load of debt.
Never having dreamed Uncle Edward would leave the resort to her, she couldn’t help feeling as if he’d somehow known what it would mean to her.
To her relief, the road curved away from the river and plunged back into the forest. Leah’s anticipation rose as she peered ahead through the tunnel formed by the enormous old evergreen trees.
It was another ten minutes before her car popped out into the grassy meadow, spangled with wildflowers, and there was the resort.
Except...there were already people here. Her foot went to the brake. Half a dozen—no, more than that—SUVs were parked in front of the lodge and cabins. Not a single car, she noted in a corner of her mind. These all looked like the kind of vehicles designed to drive on icy pavement and even off-road.
This was weird, but...she’d come this far. Surely, there was a legitimate reason for people to be here.
After a moment she continued forward, coasting to a stop in front of the lodge. Head turning, she saw that some of the cabins had been repaired in the recent past. Several new roofs and the raw wood of new porches and window frames were unmistakable.
A woman on one of those porches looked startled at the sight of her and slipped back inside the cabin, maybe to tell someone else about the arrival of a stranger.
Two men appeared around the corner of the lodge, probably having heard her car engine.
Who were these people? Had Mom been wrong, and Uncle Edward had kept the resort open? But still, he’d died eight months ago. Could he have sold it, with no one knowing?
She’d braked and put the gear in Park, but unease stilled her hand before she turned the key.
What if—? But she’d hesitated too long. The men had reached her car, their expressions merely inquiring. There had to be a reasonable explanation. She should be glad the resort buildings hadn’t begun to tumble down.
In the sudden silence after she shut off the engine, the car keys bit into her hand. Taking a deep breath, Leah unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door and got out.
One of the men, gray-haired but as fit as a younger man, smiled. “You must be lost.”
The muscular guy behind him had full-sleeve tattoos bared below a muscle-hugging tan T-shirt. And...could that be a holstered pistol at his waist?
Dear God, yes.
Say yes. Claim you were heading anywhere else. Let them give you directions and then drive away.
She could go to the nearest small town—Glacier, population 211—and ask about the group staying here. There was only one highway in and out of this area. These people had driven here. They’d have been noticed.
But the older of the two men looked friendly, not hostile at all. There’d be a logical explanation.
“No, actually,” she said. “Um... I own this resort.”
His smile fell away. “You’re the owner?”
“That’s right. I inherited the place from my great-uncle, Edward Preston.”
Outwardly, the man relaxed. “Oh, we’ve been wondering what was going to happen to the place. The old man let us mostly take over the resort these past few summers in exchange for working on it. We had no idea he’d died until we got here in late June and found it empty.”
“Didn’t you ask in Glacier or Maple Falls? Surely, people there knew he’d died.”
“Some bed-and-breakfast owner I talked to said she hadn’t heard anything.” He nodded toward the lodge. “Why don’t you come on in and we can talk? I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of coffee.”
Conscious of the other man’s eyes boring into her, she hesitated again, but what else could she do but say, “Sure. Thanks. I’d forgotten what a long drive it is to get up here.”
The pair flanked her as they started toward the lodge, which sounded deceptively grand. The old log building only had six guest rooms, all upstairs, a large kitchen and living space and the owner’s small apartment at the back. Mostly, Uncle Edward had rented out the ten cabins. What guests he’d allowed to stay in the lodge understood they had to bring their own food and cook for themselves. “Not like I’m going to wait on them hand and foot,” he’d snorted.
Leah became nervously aware that several other men had stepped out of cabins, their gazes on her. Most wore camo cargo pants, as did the so-far silent man walking to her right. None of them called out. Their appraisal felt...cold.
She was imagining things. They were curious, that was all.
Only...why weren’t there other women? Children?
The porch steps were solid, having obviously been replaced. The older man opened the front door and they ushered her in. Herded me in, that uneasy voice inside her head whispered.
She did smell coffee. In fact, a couple of empty cups sat on the long plank table where guests had eaten or sat around in the evening to play board games or poker.
“Let me get that coffee,” the gray-haired man said. “You want sugar? I have milk but no cream.”
“Milk’s fine. Just a dash, and a teaspoon of sugar.”
“Coming right up. Have a seat.” He nodded toward the benches to each side of the table.
Knowing she’d feel trapped once she was sitting with her feet under the table, she strolled instead toward the enormous river-rock fireplace where she had once upon a time roasted marshmallows for s’mores.
None of the men she’d seen thus far looked as if they’d do anything that frivolous. Chew sixteen-gauge steel nails, maybe. Graham crackers, gooey charred marshmallows and melted chocolate? Hard to picture.
The silent guy remained standing, a shoulder against the log wall right beside the door out to the porch. He watched her steadily.
Maybe he’d be friendly if she was. But before she could think of anything to say that wasn’t too inane, the older man returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in each hand.
He glanced toward the second man but didn’t offer to fetch him a cup, too.
Leah didn’t feel as if she had any choice but to go back to the table and sit down.
He took a sip before asking, “Mind telling me your plans?”
“Um... I wanted to see what condition the buildings were in. And, well, probably I’ll sell the place.”
“Sell it, huh? You have a price in mind?”
“I have no idea what land is worth up here.” If it was worth anything. She had to be honest with herself. “Are you interested?”
“Could be. We’d hate having to relocate.”
Feeling and sounding timid, she asked, “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing up here? I’m assuming you’re not all vacationing here three months a year.”
The flicker of amusement in his eyes wasn’t at all reassuring. He thought she was funny. Naive.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “No, this is a business.”
More unnerved by the minute, she gripped the handle of the mug. She could buy herself time by throwing hot coffee in one of the men’s faces if she had to run for it.
Just then, the front door opened and two more men walked in. Cool gazes assessed her. One of them raised dark eyebrows as he looked at the man acting as host. Leah had no trouble hearing the unspoken question.
Who the hell is she and what does she want?
One of the newcomers was short and stocky with sandy hair. Sort of Dennis the Menace, with the emphasis on menace.
The other was formidable enough to scare her more. Eyes a crystalline gray could have been chips of ice. Tanned and dark-haired, he had the kind of shoulders that suggested he did some serious weight lifting.
And, dear God, both men wore holstered handguns at their waists.
Paramilitary was the word that came to mind. What had she walked into?
Be up front, she decided.
“I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable,” she said, focusing on the older man who almost had to be the leader of this bunch. “Why don’t I head back to Glacier and find a room for the night? I’ll talk to a real estate agent, and if you’d like you can come down tomorrow, meet me for lunch, maybe. We can talk.”
Still appearing relaxed, he said slowly, “That might work. Ah...in answer to your earlier question, what we do is run paintball camps. It’s mostly men who come up here. They immerse themselves in the wilderness and harmless war games, have a hell of a good time. We’ve built up a serious seasonal business. Like I said, finding another location anywhere near as perfect as this one would be next to impossible.”
Because this land was so remote. Leah had to wonder whether it was true Uncle Edward had let them use his place for several summers in a row, or whether they’d somehow heard he had died and moved in under the assumption no one would be interested enough in a falling-down resort in the middle of nowhere to bother checking on it.
She stole another look at the three men on their feet, now ranged around the room. “Those...look like real guns.”
Boss Man across from her shrugged. “Sure, we have a shooting range set up. A bunch of us have been out there all morning. Gotta keep sharp, even if we’re mostly using paintball guns.”
Nobody else’s expression changed.
“Well,” she said, starting to push herself up.
The sound of the back door opening was as loud as a shot. Bounced off the wall, she diagnosed, in a small, calm part of her mind surrounded by near hysteria.
All of the men turned their heads.
Grinning, a man emerged from the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he carried a huge gun, painted army green. Even as he said, “Hot damn!” before seeing her, Leah’s blood chilled.
She’d seen pictures, taken in places like the Ukraine and Afghanistan. That wasn’t a gun—it was a rocket launcher.
SON OF A BITCH.
Spencer Wyatt restrained himself from so much as twitching a muscle only from long practice. His mind worked furiously, though. Could this juxtaposition be any more disastrous? An unsuspecting woman wandering in here like a dumb cow to slaughter, coupled with that cocky, careless jackass Joe Osenbrock striding in with an effing rocket launcher over his shoulder? Yee haw.
Especially a young, pretty woman. Did she have any idea what trouble she was in?
Flicking a glance at her, he thought, yeah, she had a suspicion.
In fact, she said, in a voice that sounded a little too cheerful to be real, “Is that one of the paintball guns? I’ve never seen one before.”
Good try.
Ed Higgs didn’t buy it. “You know better than that. Damn. I wish I could let you go, but I can’t.”
She flung her full coffee cup at his face, leaped off the bench and tore for the front door, still standing ajar. Smart move, trying to get out of here. She actually brushed Spencer. He managed to look surprised and stagger back to give her a chance. No surprise, the little creep Larson was on her before she so much as touched the door.
She screamed and struggled. Her nails raked down Larson’s cheek. Teeth set, he slammed her against the wall, flattening his body on hers. Spencer wanted to rip the little pissant off and throw him into the wall. Went without saying that he stayed right where he was. There was no way for him to help now that wouldn’t derail his mission.
He had more lives than hers to consider.
Ed snapped, “Get her car keys. Wyatt, go over the car. When you’re done, bring in her purse and whatever else she brought with her. Make sure you don’t miss anything. Hear me?”
“Sure thing.” He knew that once he had the keys, he’d have to hand them over to Higgs, who kept all the vehicle keys hidden away. No one had access to an SUV without Higgs knowing.
Arne Larson burrowed a hand into the woman’s jeans pocket. When he groped with exaggerated pleasure, his captive struck quick as a snake, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Arne yanked out the set of keys and backhanded her across the face. Her head snapped back, hitting the log wall with an audible thunk.
Spencer jerked but once again pulled hard on the leash. If she would only cooperate, she might have a chance to get out of this alive.
Arne tossed the keys at him and Spencer caught them. Without a word, he walked out, taking with him a last glimpse of her face, fine-boned and very pale except for the furious red staining her right jaw and cheek where the blow had fallen.
She hadn’t locked the car, which didn’t appear to be a rental. He used the keys to unlock the trunk and pull out a small wheeled suitcase, sized to be an airline carry-on, as well as a rolled-up sleeping bag and a cardboard box filled with basic food. Then he searched the trunk, removing the jack and spare tire, going through a bag of tools and an inadequate first-aid kit.
He couldn’t believe even Higgs, with his paranoid worldview, would think the woman in there was an undercover FBI or ATF agent.
She hadn’t packed like one, he discovered, after opening the suitcase on the trunk lid once he closed it. Toiletries—she liked handmade soap, this bar smelling like citrus and some spice—jeans, T-shirts, socks and sandals. Two books, one a romance, one nonfiction about the Lipizzaner horses during World War II. He fanned the pages. Nothing fell out. A hooded sweatshirt. Lingerie, practical but pretty, too, lacking lace but skimpy enough to heat a man’s blood and in brighter colors than he’d have expected from her.
Not liking the direction his thoughts had taken him, he dropped the mint-green bra back on top of the mess he’d made of the suitcase’s contents.
There was nothing but food in the carton, including basics like boxes of macaroni and cheese, a jar of instant coffee, a loaf of whole-grain bread and packets of oatmeal with raisins. The sleeping bag, unrolled, unzipped and shaken, hid no secrets.
A small ice chest sat on the floor in front. No surprises there, either, only milk, several bars of dark chocolate, a tub of margarine and several cans of soda.
He took her purse from the passenger seat and dumped the contents out on the hood of the car. A couple of items rolled off. Plastic bottle of ibuprofen and a lip gloss. Otherwise, she carried an electronic reader, phone, a wallet, hairbrush, checkbook, wad of paper napkins, two tampons and some crumpled receipts for gas and meals. Her purse was a lot neater than most he’d seen.
Opening the wallet, he took out her driver’s license first. Issued by the state of Oregon, it said her name was Leah E. Keaton. She was described as blond, which he’d dispute, but he didn’t suppose strawberry blond would fit on the license. Weight, one hundred and twenty pounds, height, five feet six inches. Eyes, hazel. Age, thirty-one. Birthday, September 23.
She’d smiled for the photo. For a moment Spencer’s eyes lingered. DMV photos were uniformly bad, no better than mug shots, but he saw hope and dignity in that smile. She reminded him of a time when his purpose wasn’t so dark.
Did Leah E. Keaton know it wasn’t looking good for her to make it to that next birthday, no matter what he did?
