Deadly Fate (28 page)

“Passengers haven't boarded yet,” Jackson said.

“Marc Kimball can buy his way many places,” Thor reminded him.

“There were no orders out not to let the man board a ship,” Jackson said. “I'll look into it.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, get here, Thor. I've called the Alaska State Troopers. They'll get a man down to me so we can sandwich Clara out of here. I'm going to get her to the station.”

“Perfect. I don't like this. I'd like to know that she's safe—in a place filled with law enforcement and with guns all around. She needs to be at the station. I'm on my way, heading to Seward—get there as fast as physically possible. I'll call when I'm near so I know where to head to meet up with the two of you.”

Thor left his snowmobile and hurried down the docks.

A Coast Guard cutter was there, along with a captain ready to sail him across the water and back to Seward with all speed. Thor scanned the shoreline of Seward and the docks.

It wasn't until they had nearly arrived that he saw something that made him pause. “There! Can we pull up?” he asked the captain.

“There?”

“That little motorboat, the one tied poorly,” he said.

No one who really knew how to handle a boat—or gave two figs about it—would leave a boat tied with a simple bow; any sailor worth his salt would have secured the little vessel.

The water was always somewhat rough; waves lapped at the cutter and the rowboat. Thor trusted his coordination and his years living in the wintry waters and wilderness and leapt from the one vessel to the other.

It was dotted with bits of something red. He hunkered down and touched it.

Blood.

He'd found the killer's way on and off the island.

Off—the killer was here now. In Seward.

He looked up and when he did, he saw a number of the cruise ships down at the distant cruise port.

Among them, the
Fate.

“Thor!”

He heard his name spoken softly and he looked up to the dock. The sun was shimmering down; it was late afternoon...maybe even evening, but the sun was still a powerful entity in the sky. Streaks of gold seemed to highlight someone standing there.

Mandy Brandt.

She didn't say more; she seemed to look at him with infinite sadness. She pointed at the
Fate
, and then she was gone.

And Thor turned to look at the captain of the Coast Guard cutter.

“Get me to the
Fate
, immediately,
please
!” he said.

“Special Agent Erikson, there is protocol and there are restrictions—”

“I'll fix them. Just get me on that ship. Now!”

* * *

There had to be some kind of protection training learned at the FBI; Jackson finished his conversation with headquarters and then after his brief exchange with Thor went into immediate action. “There's no real proof, but it seems that the satellite signals cross right here—on the
Fate
. Seems like he's come here—or he's very near here,” he told her. “We're going to head into the police station.”

Clara nodded. “Whatever you say,” she told him.

“Kimball is off the island, too. He may—he may be trying to follow or find you.”

She tried for weak humor. “He does seem to like a good musical comedy.”

Tate Morley was aboard the
Fate.

How the hell had he gotten on?

Passengers weren't boarding—they wouldn't be for days.

But Jackson Crow didn't seem to be surprised.

“Morley—how?” she asked, trying to remain calm and in control.

“Morley is a master with fake papers and disguises that make him look like an ‘everyman,'” he told her briefly. “Security is coming down the hallway now—we'll be off the ship and over to the police station as quickly as possible. A state police officer is heading this way. At his arrival, he'll lead and I'll follow until we're off the ship.”

Clara felt as if the great glaciers themselves had found a way into her bloodstream. Even with everything happening, she hadn't felt this sense of intimate personal danger until now. She swallowed and nodded; she was with Jackson. He had been her protector before; he had seen her through a bad and dangerous time. He would do so again.

“As soon as an officer gets here, we'll head off the ship,” Jackson said.

“Well, you're with me. I'm sure we could—”

“We'll wait. If you want to gather a few things, it might be a good idea,” Jackson said.

“I'll just grab my toothbrush and a few clothes,” Clara murmured.

She walked into her small bathroom. As she reached for her toothbrush to pack in a little toiletries bag, she was stunned to hear a scream—one so loud and piercing that it seemed to tear through the bowels of the ship.

She burst out of the bathroom. “Stay!” Jackson said. “Lock the door when I'm gone—the second I'm gone. Don't open it!”

He headed out. “Wait, Jackson, don't leave me!” she said.

But he was already walking away. He turned back. “Lock it!”

He left; she locked the door.

Pacing, she realized she was safe. She was almost below the waterline. No one was going to enter by her tiny porthole. The only way was the door.

And she didn't intend to open it.

But Jackson had been gone only a matter of minutes when something slammed against her door.

She jumped, then she heard a voice. “My God, please, Clara! He'll kill me. If he can't talk to you, he's going to kill me!”

She looked out the tiny peephole in her door.

And she saw Emmy Vincenzo, tiny, shaking—looking as if she'd been beaten with dark smudges beneath her eyes...a heavy bruise on one cheek.

And blood trickling down her forehead.

“Please, oh, God, please help me, Clara!”

She screamed, and seemed to slam against the door again as if she'd been stabbed.

Clara opened her cabin door.

Emmy Vincenzo was not alone.

15

T
hor called Jackson immediately—no answer.

He continued to call him all the way to the ship. He tried to tell himself that there were logical reasons that Jackson didn't answer.

Clara didn't answer her cell, either.

He reached Enfield, who had told him there'd been an incident aboard the ship that Jackson was investigating; they were sending men out.

“Incident? What kind of incident?”

“I don't know yet—screams reported. Crow is there. As soon as I know, I'll get back with you.”

Yeah, Crow was there—but not answering Thor, either. At least the road was cleared for him when he reached the ship. He was ready with his credentials. He stopped at the ship's one entry to meet with security, words on his lips before he could be asked the first question. “Special Agent Thor Erikson, here with the investigation into the recent barbaric murders in Seward and Black Bear Island; I have reason to believe that someone involved with the case is on this ship now.”

He left the security officer just staring after him and he realized that the man had already been notified. The ship had gone on lockdown.

He dialed Jackson as he hurried aboard.

Still no answer.

Swearing, he hurried along to the main salon of the deck he had entered. Once there, he caught hold of the first young woman he saw in a crew uniform.

“The ship is on lockdown,” the woman informed him. “Sir—”

“Special Agent Erikson,” he told her briefly. “The cast of
Annabelle Lee
—where are they?”

“Waterloo Deck. Elevators are over there and the stairs are just to the left.”

He nodded his thanks and ran down the stairs.

When he reached the Waterloo Deck, he found it empty.

And he cursed himself for not having Clara's cabin number. He stood in the hallway and shouted her name at the top of his lungs.

As doors cracked open around him, he felt as if he'd entered a bad version of
A Streetcar Named Desire
.

Except that those who peeped out looked thoroughly frightened.

Ralph and Larry Hepburn were among those who appeared. Thor turned and gripped Larry by the shoulders. “Where's Clara?”

“Cabin 827,” Larry said. “She came back here with Jackson. Then there was this scream that was horrible...we've been asked to stay in our cabins while the sound was investigated. Thor, hell...what else?”

“I think he's here. I think the killer is on the
Fate
,” Thor said. “Get back in your cabin.”

“Clara?” Ralph said, a catch in his throat.

“I'll find her,” Thor said.

He ran on down the hallway to 827.

The door stood slightly ajar—the latch hadn't caught.

No, it was...open.

For a moment, he felt a keen and terrible sense of déjà vu. He remembered that day now long past when he had opened another door and seen Mandy Brandt...

She lay in beauty.

He shoved the door open, his Glock in his hand.

The room was empty.

* * *

Emmy Vincenzo had fought long and hard; she and Marc Kimball both seemed to have battled ten rounds in a boxing ring.

“Please!” Emmy had choked.

She hadn't entered Clara's room—but then, Emmy was entangled with Marc Kimball, who had stared at her like a man possessed. He and Emmy were arm in arm. It seemed he was trying to speak but could not—and was letting Emmy do the speaking for him.

“He says you must come. He has a knife to my ribs. Oh, Clara, I'm so sorry... Clara, Clara...please. I'm so scared!” Emmy had seemed to choke on her words. “He's already killed a cop—he stabbed him right in the throat...oh, Clara! I should have let him kill me. I shouldn't have been such a coward!”

She had cried out; she and Kimball had been so tightly crushed together that Clara could only assume he was pressing a blade into her side.

“Emmy, it's all right,” Clara had said, amazed by her own courage as she stared at Kimball. “I'll go where he wants me to go. Marc—you sick, arrogant bastard. Don't touch her again.”

And so she walked ahead of the two.

Down the hallway where cast and other entertainers were first housed, though now they had moved into another layer of the ship—where a maze led to machinery and storage and, she could only assume, at one time, the lowest of the lowly servants and workers aboard.

Clara hadn't seen a single soul; whatever the source of the scream that had impelled Jackson to leave the cabin had caused an alert on the ship.

But, surely, help would be coming. If the ship was under a code-red alarm, it would soon be crawling with police and security and...

Jackson had told her not to open her cabin door. And she had. But Marc Kimball had abused Emmy Vincenzo as an employee; now he was taking it to another level.

“This isn't right,” someone said softly.

You think?

Clara glanced to her side. Amelia Carson was now walking along with her, frowning as she glanced back at the pair behind them.

“It was that Tate Morley man... I mean, he called you, right?” Amelia said.

Tate Morley. The Fairy Tale Killer. The Media Monster...

What bizarre murder does he intend to emulate from the bowels of a historic ocean liner?

Clara swallowed. She didn't know where they were going; maybe Morley had made Kimball beat and threaten Emmy Vincenzo to use against her. Maybe he'd known Clara couldn't bear to watch another woman killed in front of her.

“Where have you been? Did you see any of this?” Clara asked softly.

“Watching...the wrong place at the wrong time! I have to do something,” Amelia said. “I have to do something...”

She turned around. Clara paused, as well. The other two staggered right into her. Amelia put her hand to her face; she looked as if she cried.

Emmy screamed again; Kimball must have prodded her with his knife.

“Who were you talking to?” Emmy demanded, tears in her eyes, words hopeful.

“Amelia Carson's ghost,” Clara said flatly.

Emmy screamed again.

“Jerk! I'm moving,” Clara said. “Quit hurting her!”

She turned and started walking again.

The ghost of Amelia Carson was gone.

* * *

Thor found Jackson working over the body of a prone officer in a cabin down the hall. He fell to his knees by his old partner and friend.

“Knifed,” Jackson said briefly, using a ripped-up piece of the man's shirt to put pressure on his wound and stop the blood flow.

“Clara—” Thor began.

“Locked in her cabin—827.”

“She's gone.”

Jackson blanched. “Find her,” he said. “I got this—find her.”

Thor rushed back into the hallway. He could hear a commotion rising on the decks above; help had arrived. Jackson wouldn't be alone—help would come for the bleeding officer.

He hurried out into the hallway. He didn't know which way to go.

Then he saw Amelia Carson.

“This way!” she beckoned.

And he followed.

* * *

Clara was suddenly shoved into a room. There was a desk with piles of papers on it, an inbox and an outbox, a computer and other modern office accoutrements, all set against the hardwood Victorian desk of an earlier era.

A man sat behind it.

He rose as they entered.

He was in a steward's white-and-blue uniform, and for a brief, shining moment, Clara thought they had stumbled upon help.

Then he smiled.

“Miss Avery! My lovely, lovely Miss Avery. How very nice to meet you in person. You really are quite something. You know, I wish we could have met under other circumstances. I'm really a charming man. You would have enjoyed knowing me.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

Emmy and Kimball seemed to retreat—still as one—to a corner of the room. The desk was between her and Tate Morley. She couldn't help but note that there was a letter opener on it.

She wondered about the possibility of grabbing for it—and stabbing Morley.

That left poor little Emmy in the same position.

But how could she help the woman if she was dead herself?

“I won't get to know you, but...I'd love to know how you managed all this,” she said.

He was a truly nondescript man. Maybe five foot ten, with watery blue eyes and sandy short-cropped hair. His build was medium. There was nothing about him that stood out, and Clara assumed that made changing into whatever he wanted to be easy enough.

“You're a sad little man that no one notices, aren't you?” she asked softly.

“They all notice me!” he said, a note of irritation in his voice. “They all notice me. I bring the adrenaline of fear and excitement into their lives. And those women... I made them famous. I made them beautiful as they had never been.”

“Your last victim didn't even have a face.”

He flicked a finger in the air. “But the first! Ah, that I might have remained the Fairy Tale Killer!” Something hardened in his expression. “Your lover boy and Crow ended that for me. But, now...reality TV! They wanted reality—I gave it to them. And it was so convenient. With the resources and knowledge to come to Alaska, I not only got to begin again, but as an added bonus, I got those arrogant FBI bastards, as well. And, any good killer knows, a signature is needed...but! With your blonde beauty...all I can think of is a fairy tale! The fairest of the fair.”

“You know you're on a ship. You know that police and FBI will be crawling through it within minutes.”

“And I'll be gone. You see, I've had opportunity to learn all that I need to know. Please, Miss Avery! I've come and gone like the wind.”

“Let Emmy go!” she said.

“Let Emmy go... I don't think so.”

She'd been eyeing the desk—waging her chances.

If he wouldn't let Emmy go...

No choice.

She made a dive for the letter opener.

* * *

Thor followed the apparition down and along the hallway at breakneck speed. Then, just as Amelia Carson seemed to disappear into thin air, he heard voices.

Tate Morley's voice. And the man was talking about fairy tales...

He heard Clara's voice; it was trilled slightly with fear—it was heavier with anger.

He tried to determine who else might be in the room—and then he heard something like a war cry and he had no choice but to swing around the corner and into the room.

Clara was holding her own. She was down on an old Victorian desk, grappling with Morley and a letter opener.

Emmy Vincenzo was locked in a hold with Marc Kimball.

“Stop!”

He fired his Glock into the air.

For a moment, it seemed that everyone in the room froze; as if he had created a tableau.

But then, Morley let out a scream of fury, and slammed against Clara, wrestling the letter opener from her and raising it over her head.

Thor aimed and shot in less than two seconds.

“Emmy!” Clara screamed, scrambling from beneath the dead man.

But poor little Emmy had found her courage at last. She'd freed herself from Kimball. She had the knife; Thor saw Kimball's eyes widen and his mouth open, as if he would make one last derisive comment—fire her, perhaps!—before her knife landed in his gut.

Kimball crumpled to the floor and Thor rushed forward to take Clara into his arms.