TFP502: Snow Blind- Layne Parrish Behind The Scenes

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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.”

“Do you receive a lot of donated gifts from the RCMP?”

“Absolutely. We’re the most respected wellness retreat center on the west coast.” She passed a credit card slip.

“Hmm,” Layne said as he signed the name Leonard Priest on the receipt. He tried to keep his eyes from bugging out at the cost of his stay. “Good to know.”

“I do hope you enjoy yourself over the next week. You’ll find your itinerary in a folder in your bungalow. Nothing else is on the plan for today, so settle in and relax. Visit the cafeteria and try out some Elephant Ear.”

He cocked his head, and she giggled. “It’s not really elephant,” she said. “It’s a dessert.”

“I see.”

“One other note: there’s no WiFi, which is by design. We hope you’ll use this as an opportunity to detach from technology. Let you find you.”

Layne tapped the desk a couple times and smiled at her, to which she gave a bashful duck of the head. He wasn’t trying to be flirty because she looked young enough to be his kid.

Then he turned and sauntered out of the reception lodge. Outside, a blast of cold air whipped his face, and he marched out into snow nearly four inches deep along the wooden porch surrounding the lodge. It was coming down too fast for them to shovel and salt all the walkways between the log cabins and bungalows. Record snowfall already this winter, apparently.

And, more snow on the way, according to the seven-day weather report Layne had seen this morning. He didn’t mind the cold and the relentless flakes of white since he himself lived in a snow-drenched town in Southwestern Colorado. But, if inclement weather forced the retreat guests to hide in their bungalows, that could cause a problem. This week was about mixing with people, to find the ones who weren’t who they said they were.

Layne possessed a key to a bungalow for seven nights, but he hoped what he needed to accomplish here wouldn’t take nearly that long. He didn’t want to be here at all, actually. But, it had to be done. And he didn’t trust anyone else to do it. Once it was over with, he could go back to his normal life and put a few other things behind him, as well.

Seven days. Hopefully sooner. His daughter and her mother would be back from Paris in eight, and he’d prefer to have a couple days of buffer.

As Layne zipped up his jacket and threw the hood over his head, he lumbered out into the deeper snow to forge a path to his bungalow. Unlike Colorado, the snow here was wet and had a certain satisfying crunch to it. Chunks flew up behind him, kicked up by his boots as he trudged across the campus.

And, as soon as he ventured out into the open, he felt eyes on him. In the blinding white light of the snow, he couldn’t see much of anything to corroborate the notion.

But he could feel the eyes.