PROLOGUE

CARL OFFENHEIMER DROVE HIS silver Acura SUV into the parking lot. Tires crunched on the gravel. Behind the chain-linked fence an orchestra of cement mixers, hammers, electric saws, and riveting rose to a crescendo. And it was all sweet music to Offenheimer's ears. His deluxe condo complex with its own private pier and marina was all ready generating sales interest in Victoria, Vancouver, and Calgary. A number of calls had also come in from San Francisco and Los Angeles. But investors were edgy. The complex was due to open by September in time for the fall Wine Festival; but there had been delays.

Offenheimer put on the red hard hat that he kept in the vehicle, collected his briefcase and strode across the open work area to a double portable trailer where he had his offices.

Inside Arnie Howard, the project foreman, and his assistant Jake Hamilton were huddled over the drafting table looking at plans. He nodded to them. Offenheimer glanced through the open door of the architect's office. It was empty. Andrew Smythe-Carrington had yet to arrive, but that was no surprise. Carrington, well known in Vancouver, was a bit of a flamboyant eccentric and kept odd hours, but Offenheimer knew he was lucky to have him on this project.

"We're going to set the pilings for the pier today,"said Jake.

Offenheimer paused. "Fine by me, but how are we coming with the main structure?"

"The main wing should be done on time, but the west wing is coming a bit slower. We're building a bit out over the water. The blasting and drilling is taking a bit longer than we thought,"reported Arnie.

"Do the best you can. I have to give a report to our investors in a few days. Banks get nervous with delays."

"Yeah, but they've invested in enough real estate to know that building takes time,"replied the foreman.

"What time are you doing the deep drilling?"asked Offenheimer.

"Eleven o'clock."

"I'll be there."

Offtenheimer walked towards the door to his office. Just outside it, crammed into a ridiculously small space was an L-shaped desk containing a computer, stacks of files and his ample secretary Sally Bigelow. She raised her blonde shaggy head. "Louise called. She said her car is in the shop."

Carl closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was paying his ex-wife plenty and had bought her a condo in West Vancouver. Her car problems were not his. She called him every time something went wrong. She nagged him at every turn. She couldn't make a decision without asking him. It was one of the reasons he'd divorced her in the first place.

Carl went into his office and closed the door.

Though the condo complex was far north of Scully Point, the land was a porous connection of tunnels, veins and, underground streams. Blasting and drilling from the construction, as well as other building projects up and down the lake, created vibrations that spread through the bedrock. Sound also traveled through the lake, disturbing the fish and other underwater life that lived there. Some of that life had lived there a long time. Longer than man had walked upon the continent. It had been content. But human civilization had come, and slowly things had changed in the lake. The life there did not like change. It did not like being disturbed. It did not like being threatened.