I stole a glance at Cheryl. An enigmatic smile was frozen on her face like a mannequin's. Ali smiled bashfully, nodded.
"Actually," Bo said, "maybe the real question is, can you tough guys keep up with the ladies? See, in case you guys are thinking you're old hands and you got a head start on the ladies-sorry. Doesn't work that way. Because I always like to shake things up. Get you out of your comfort zone. So we're going to be doing some new things this year. Some fishing-only not the kind you're used to. Some kayaking. A great new GPS scavenger hunt. Even extreme tree climbing-and lemme tell you, it ain't like when you were a kid."
Kevin Bross grinned.
"Right, Kev? You've done recreational tree climbing, haven't you? Rope-secured, with harnesses and carabiners and all?"
"Got certified in Atlanta," Bross said.
"Why does that not surprise me?" said Lampack. "How about you, uh, Upton? It's wild, isn't it?"
Upton Barlow shook his head. "Haven't tried it yet, but I'm looking forward to it," he said. Obviously he wasn't happy that Bross knew a sport he didn't. "We doing the fire walk again this year?"
"Uh, we've stopped doing the fire walk," Lampack said. "Insurance problems."
Some nervous titters.
"Guy from Honeywell got hurt pretty bad, few months back."
"I guess he wasn't a positive thinker," Bross said. "It's all about mental concentration, you know."
"Tell that to the guy from Honeywell with third-degree burns on the soles of his feet," said Lampack. "Had to have skin grafts. See, this isn't all fun and games, kids. Now, this year's program is called Power Play, but it's not going to be like any play you've ever done before. You're all going to have to sign liability waivers as usual. There are dangers. We don't want any of you executives falling off tightropes in the ropes course and bashing your heads and delaying the launch of your new plane or anything."
There was a weird, hostile edge to Lampack, I was beginning to see. Like he secretly resented the corporate executives he worked with and took a kind of sadistic pleasure in taunting them.
"I won't lie to you," he said. "There's gonna be scary moments. But it's moments like that that tell you who you really are. When you're thirty feet off the ground you learn what you're really made of, okay? You learn to confront your fears. Because this is about personal growth and self-discovery. It's about breaking down inhibitions. Knocking down those office walls so we can build team spirit."
He reached down and picked up a large reel of rope. He pulled out a length: half-inch white rope, blue threads woven through it. "You know what this is? This is not just your lifeline. This is trust." He nodded solemnly, looked around. "When you're walking across a cable thirty feet off the ground and some-one's belaying you, you've got to trust him-or her-not to drop you, huh?"
He set the spool down. "You'll be challenged mentally and physically. And you're all going to fail at some point-our courses are designed to make you fail. Not our rope, though. Hopefully." He chuckled. "These tests are some of the most brutal trials you'll ever go through." He paused. "Except maybe one of Hank Bodine's PowerPoint presentations, huh?"
Bodine clicked a smile on and off. No one laughed.
"See, I'm going to get you all out of your comfort zone and into your learning zone."
A sudden explosion came from somewhere outside: the loud pop of a gunshot.
But it made no sense. This wasn't a hunting area. Everyone turned.
Lampack looked both ways, shrugged. "Guess a grizzly must've got into someone's garbage."
"Really?" Ali said.
"Happens all the time. Tons of grizzlies and black bears in the woods. Not supposed to shoot 'em, though people do. Get up early in the morning, and you might even see one washing himself down by the shore. Just leave 'em alone, and they'll leave you alone." He nodded sagely. "Now, we'll be evaluating the progress of your team development at the end of each day using the Drexler-Sibbet Team Performance Model-"
Another loud pop, then a door banged: the front door of the lodge, it sounded like.
A large man in a hunting outfit, camouflage shirt and matching pants, and a heavy green vest, traipsed into the room. He was well over six feet, wide, and heavyset: a giant. He was around forty, with a powerful build that had gone somewhat to fat. He had short jet-black hair that looked dyed, dark eyebrows, a neatly trimmed black goatee. Mephistopheles, I thought. There was something satanic about his short black goatee, his jutting brow.
He stopped in the middle of the room, looked around with beady dark eyes, then approached the dining table.
"Man oh man," he said. "What do we got here?" His teeth were tobacco-stained.
Lampack folded his arms. "Private party, friend. Sorry."
"Party?" the hunter said. "Jeez Louise, don't it look like a party, though. Ain't you gonna invite me in?"
He spoke with a Deep South accent so broad and drawling he sounded like a hillbilly, some backwoods rube. But there was something cold in his gaze.
He took a few steps toward the sideboard, where some of the serving dishes had been placed, his brown smile wider, greedy black eyes staring. "Christ, will you look at that spread."
"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave," Lampack said. "Let's not have any trouble."
"Chill, Bo," warned Bross quietly. "Guy's probably drunk."
The hunter approached the table, arms wide as if awed by the opulence of the spread. "Man, looky here. Christ on crutches, look at all this food."
He shoved Ron Slattery aside and grabbed a partridge right off his plate with grimy hands. Slattery's eyeglasses went flying. Then the intruder stuffed the partridge whole into his mouth and chewed openmouthed. "Damn, that game bird's good," he said, his words muffled by the food. "No buckshot in it, neither. Do I taste a hint of garlic?"
Grabbing Danziger's wineglass, he gulped it down like Kool-Aid, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Mmm-mmm! Even better than Thunderbird."
Hank Bodine said, "All right, fella. Why don't you just go back to your hunting party, okay? This is a private lodge."
Bo Lampack folded his arms across his chest. "If you're hungry, I'm sure we can get you some food from the kitchen."
The giant leaned over the table, reached for Cheryl's plate. He dug his soiled stubby fingers into the mound of porcini-potato gratin.
"Oh, God," Cheryl said in disgust, closing her eyes.
"Mashed potatoes, huh?" He made a shovel out of his forefingers, scooped up a wad, and eyed it suspiciously.
"The hell's all these black specks doing in it? I think the potato mush is rotten, folks. Don't eat it." He cackled, crammed it into his mouth. "Not half-bad, though. Dee-licious."
"Where the hell is the manager?" Cheryl said.
From the far end of the table, Clive Rylance said, "All right, mate, just get on your way, now there's a good fellow. This is a private dinner, and I'm afraid you're outnumbered."
Inwardly I groaned. Outnumbered. Not the right thing to say. The hunter gave Clive a stony look. Then a slow grin.
"You a Brit, huh? Limey?" He leaned over between me and Upton Barlow, jostling us aside. He smelled of chewing tobacco and rancid sweat. Grabbing a crepe from Barlow's plate, he said, "You folks eat flapjacks for supper, too? I love flapjacks for supper." Then he took a bite, immediately spit it out onto the tablecloth. "Nasty! Jee-zus, that ain't syrup, that for damned sure."
Barlow's face colored. He pursed his lips, exasperated.
"Will someone get the manager already?" Cheryl shouted. "My God, are you men just going to sit here?"
"You folks having fun? Celebrating something, maybe? Way out here, middle of nowhere?"
Another door slammed. It sounded like it came from somewhere in the back of the lodge.
A second man now entered the great room from a side hallway. This one was maybe ten years younger, also tall and bulky. He, too, wore a camouflage outfit, only the sleeves of his shirt had been sloppily ripped off, exposing biceps like ham hocks, covered in tattoos. His undersized head was shaved on the sides, a blond thatch on top. He had a big, blank face and a small, bristly blond mustache.