Snowbound, стр. 31
“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 Pasion 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 cellar, 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.
“Other things, other things . . . Ah, yes, the wolves. They roam the grounds, and occasionally, particularly at night, we let them in. You’re probably all wondering why you were instructed to wear a red bandanna on your left arm. That’s to let our wolves know whose team you’re on. They see that, they’ll leave you alone. This does not mean you should go outside by yourself, or that you should approach a wolf and try to make a new friend. Ignore them if they come around, and don’t make eye contact. They are trained, vicious murderers, and they work in tandem, and if you don’t follow protocol with them, they will tear you apart. Okay?”
Devlin heard the kitchen doors swing open.
“Perfect timing. Breakfast is served.”
She turned, saw two pairs of miniskirted legs in fence-net stockings moving toward the table.
“Gentlemen, meet Alena and Jill. They’re on kitchen duty this week for some exceptional behavior over the last year.”
Devlin heard what she guessed were platters of food being set on the table.
“Now, I believe that plate in the middle is reindeer sausage,” Ethan said. “You should all try it. Little gamey, but very good.”
FORTY-FIVE
Devlin huddled under the table for forty minutes, her legs cramping, listening to the six oilmen devour what sounded like an all-out feast, based on the intermittent stretches of blissful silence as they chewed, and the ferocity of their consumption.
Though little was said, she committed every detail to memory. They were executives from a company called Presidian Oil, and all spoke with great familiarity and affinity of Houston. An older-sounding gentleman named Reynolds gave a heartfelt, if drunken, toast to the “astronomical third quarter.” Sean was apparently the son of Ken, and there was frequent lamentation that a “first-rate son of a bitch” named Bobby couldn’t be with them to partake.
Then, as quickly as they’d come, the chairs scooted back from the table, and the oilmen departed en masse with Ethan.
Devlin crawled between two chairs and struggled to her feet, staring at the table, which resembled the aftermath of some epic battle—dishes and silverware strewn with haphazard abandon, plentiful portions of meat, eggs, and fruit still occupying china.