Show notes
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Layne Parrish slid his fingertips along the wooden ax handle. He appreciated the fine craftsmanship, the quality of the wood, and the razor-sharp edge of the blade.
“You like it?” asked the receptionist at the lodge’s check-in desk.
“What?” Layne said, angling his body toward her. As he did, he lowered his hand, since touching the ax had made the sleeve of his hoodie ride up, exposing the web of tattoos on one of his arms. Not that he expressly needed to hide his ink from this woman, but he liked to keep a low profile. During his pre-retirement jobs, Layne had to spend time cataloging what each contact knew or had seen. Too much work.
Lots of work, yes, but also danger. In a situation like this, when anyone and everyone could be a suspect, care had to be exercised at all times. Letting the guard down for an instant could result in a grave mistake. Mistakes meant the targets would flee without accountability.
Layne would not let them get away this time.
“Sorry,” the receptionist said, her face folding like a bashful animal. “I saw you examining the ax, Mr. Priest. It was a gift from a member of the Coast Salish tribe in Vancouver. Their people used to live all up and down these mountains.”
“Gotcha,” he said as he crossed the lodge’s room. Like a log cabin, the interior was stacked wood deeply stained brown, adorned with other similar objects hanging on the walls. Sets of old-timey snowshoes and long-necked rifles. Sepia-toned photographs in thin frames.
He paused in front of a wolf’s head, mounted on the wall. The furry beast was in mid-growl, porcelain teeth tinged with yellow. “Is this real?” he asked.
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “But he wasn’t hunted or anything of that sort. That wolf was a former resident of this area of the mountain. Some of them live in caves nearby, and we happened upon a recently deceased one at exactly the right time.”
“Interesting.”
Layne stepped to her desk, and she returned his passport, the American passport featuring his picture, but the name Leonard Priest.
“There are still plenty of wolves wandering around, in case you decide to go for a hike. Many of them are not afraid of humans one bit.”
“Noted.”
“Have you been to Squamish Mountain Retreat Center before, Mr. Priest?”
“Please, call me Leonard, or Lenny,” Layne said to the young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight, her eyebrows arched. “And no, I haven’t. This is our first time in the area.”
“Excellent, Leonard. There will be a formal orientation tomorrow morning, but feel free to grab any of the staff at any time, or call the lodge from your room. It’s a free and open sort of environment here.”
He flipped through a guest book sitting on the counter. No one had signed it recently, but he made a few mental notes about things previous guests had marked. They talked about the sunsets and the hiking trails and all the typical tourist things. Since it was now in the dead of winter, Layne didn’t anticipate getting out on the hiking trails too much.
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
“I hope you’ll find the ‘new you’ you’ve been seeking. Everyone gets something unique from the SMRC and their stay here.”
Layne accepted the two keycards for the bungalow and slid them into his pocket. “I’m counting on it.”
Behind the woman’s head hung a set of crisscrossing pistols. Revolvers, at least a hundred years old. They reminded him of the Colt Peacemaker he sometimes carried.
Layne pointed at them. “Those Mountie pieces?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Donated to us by the Squamish Royal Canadian Mounted Police Sergeant himself. We have an excellent relationship with the town, and we consider ourselves to be something of a point of pride.”
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