Deadly Fate (8 page)

“Except for the theatricality,” Jackson said.

“Exactly,” Thor agreed.

“You mean—staging the bodies? The way they were left to horrify whoever came upon them?” Mike asked. “If I remember the newspaper reports right, the Fairy Tale Killer left his victims looking...as if they were sleeping.”

Thor nodded. “Yeah, but I can't help thinking about the way we saw Amelia Carson in the snow—she reminded me of the Black Dahlia.”

“Whose killer was never caught,” Jackson said quietly.

“And finding Miss Fontaine this morning?” Mike asked.

“Other killers in history have left their victims in such a state—historically, when traitors were decapitated, their heads were left on poles for all to see—like Natalie Fontaine's was in her room today. Dozens of movies have been made about such murders as that of the Black Dahlia—and those who have been decapitated. There was a Florida killer who left the head of one of his victims on a shelf to greet the police when they came. It's shock value—it's theater.”

“In other words, you think that Tate Morley might still actually be the killer, just taking a new direction on his theme?” Mike asked.

“It's a wild shot,” Jackson said.

“Whether it is or isn't, we have a monster on our hands. I do believe that the remaining members of the
Gotcha
film crew are in danger,” Thor said. “I don't know about the cruise ship cast—but they were here. Who knows?”

“Who knows what might have happened if you hadn't gotten here?” Jackson asked.

“I think we were supposed to get here,” Thor said.

“You mean because of the dreams we had. Because of Tate Morley?” Jackson asked.

Thor shook his head. “We were meant to come here to see Amelia Carson's body laid out the way it was. This killer is like the Fairy Tale Killer in one aspect. He delights in what I believe he sees as his theatricality.”

“His reality,” Mike said drily.

There was a knock at the door. One of the state police officers opened it when Thor called him in. The man looked perplexed. “Um, Mr. Kimball is here.”

“Who?” Jackson asked.

“Marc Kimball. The owner of Black Bear Island,” the officer said.

The three men quickly headed out of the office and down the hall to the parlor.

Thor had seen pictures of Marc Kimball in the papers; he hailed from Santa Monica and his main residence remained there. He'd purchased Black Bear Island about a decade ago from another private owner. The man seemed to have a Midas touch; his stock market investments had allowed him to buy into oil rigs, and more investments enabled him to buy in more and more until he owned an oil company outright along with a number of other diverse companies.

He seemed smaller in person than in the papers. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, pleasant features. He seemed way too cheerful for anyone arriving at a site where a woman had been found severed in two, but he was talking to Clara Avery, and he was smiling and laughing.

“I wanted to buy the cruise line and try to hire you on for every show ever done!” he was telling her.

To her credit, Clara looked incredibly uncomfortable and overwhelmed. Her costars appeared to be baffled. A skinny, frazzled young woman stood slightly behind him, hugging an agenda, bored and anxious at the same time.

“Mr. Kimball?” Thor said.

The man stopped speaking and turned to him. “And you are?” he asked sharply.

“Special Agent Thor Erikson, in charge of the murder investigation on the island,” Thor said, keeping his voice level.

“Ah, yes. Of course, well, please tell me that you plan to bring this awful affair to a speedy resolution!” Kimball said. He smiled suddenly. It wasn't a warm and cuddly smile. It had as much ice in it as the glaciers that loomed around the bay.

“Indeed we do. Why are you here?”

“I own the place!”

“I'm aware of that, Mr. Kimball. But at the moment, you have rented the property out,” Thor said.

“Not to the FBI.”

“No, sir, to Miss Fontaine. Who is dead. This is an active and intense investigation. I'm sure that my colleagues in Seward have spoken with you,” Thor said.

Thor kept his features carefully controlled. On the one hand, he was irritated. He'd met with men like Kimball before. They were accustomed to walking into a room and taking charge. Money seemed to cow many people.

But he was also amused. Thor was flanked by Jackson and Mike. He knew that they were a formidable trio and that Kimball was sizing them up. His zillions of dollars and attorneys could probably make many things happen, but at the moment, he was just facing the three of them.

“As this horrible thing occurred on my property, I came here as quickly as I could. I am an absentee landlord most of the time, Special Agent—Erkson?”

“Erikson,” Thor said pleasantly.

“I'm here to help in any way that I possibly can. I bought Black Bear Island because I truly love it. I know it like the back of my hand. I can help you search the island. I can tell you where little caches of survival supplies can be found. There is a great deal I can do to help you.”

Thor became aware that, despite the state police officers assigned to keep everyone separated, the crew members from Wickedly Weird Productions were also in the room watching what was going on—gaping a bit.

Along with the police officers.

He figured it was natural. Kimball was almost as rich as Donald Trump, or so the media claimed.

“Thank you again, sir. We appreciate your offer,” Thor said. “I believe, for now, the best we can ask is that you settle into your home for the night. Officers will be on guard. In the morning, they'll be renewing their search of the island. If you're willing to help with that search and remain with the officers, it will be deeply appreciated.”

“However,” Jackson said, stepping forward, “we have to warn you that we don't know what we're dealing with—”

“She was chopped in half!”

He turned. Becca Marle was standing there, staring at Kimball in awe, and yet horrified anew as she voiced a fact of the murder.

“The point is,” Jackson continued, “any search for this killer might be highly dangerous, and perhaps, for a man of your standing, not advisable.”

Kimball wasn't a fool. “Agent... I didn't catch your name, sir. You are...?”

“Assistant Director Crow,” Jackson said.

“I believe you're
not
referring to the importance of me in the world, sir, but rather to the fact that you don't believe I'm capable of defending myself. I am happy to advise you that I am a crack shot and have trained with some of the finest experts in the world in martial arts and various other forms of self-defense. I can provide documentation as to my prowess, if you wish.”

“We'll take a signature on a waiver that you've chosen to work with law enforcement,” Thor told the man.

“I shall sign that I insist,” Kimball said. He looked at his watch. “Are you gentlemen aware of the time?”

Actually, he wasn't, Thor realized.

“Nearly midnight,” Kimball continued. “Perhaps, with your permission, I can assign rooms to the people here, since—even with my boat and the vessels the Coast Guard can surely supply you—it might now be better for them all to remain in the safety of so many fine officers for the evening. Let them have a few hours of sleep, at the least.”

“We did have the place rented... We thought we might stay tonight. That, of course, was what Natalie wanted to do,” Becca said, her words ending in a sob.

Nate might be an extraordinary fabricator of stage and scene works, but he hadn't seemed much like the demonstrative type, and he probably wasn't; he awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“There are eight bedrooms and my master suite,” Kimball said. “And of course, the kitchen room, where Justin and Magda stay. I can't accommodate all the officers here—”

“The officers are here to be on duty,” Mike interrupted. “We spell one another, and chairs and couches do us just fine.”

“As to the others, I believe it is up to them. We can arrange for the Coast Guard to get everyone back to Seward,” Thor said.

“But, they're welcome to stay!” Kimball protested.

“I'm glad to stay,” Becca said. “Delighted, really. We have law enforcement here—it's safe!”

“Whatever,” Tommy said with a shrug.

“Lord, yes!” Ralph said, looking over at Clara, Simon and Larry with excitement.

Clara was silent; she didn't look at all thrilled.

Simon murmured, “Sure.”

And Larry said, “At this point and this time, yeah.”

“Wonderful!” Kimball said. “I'm assuming that during the day you've availed yourself of the kitchen, so you're aware that the place is always well stocked. There are four rooms to the left of the kitchen and dining area and four beyond my office. Perhaps assign an officer to each hallway? Though I doubt that a cowardly killer would darken a door here, not with so many fine agents of the law in residency.”

His tone and word choice were irritating beyond measure.

But his offer made sense; it was late. They'd been debating themselves the best course of action.

“I gotta say, we've been up since the crack of dawn,” Nate said. “I mean...that doesn't mean anything against what happened to Natalie and Amelia, but...”

“Everyone is exhausted,” Simon said quietly.

“Perfect,” Marc Kimball said. “Please, help yourselves—with the kind agents' permission, of course—to the rooms. They are all fully stocked with toiletries and robes, and each has its own bath.”

“We did rent the place,” Tommy said. “So...”

“Trust me,” Kimball said, irritation slipping into his voice despite his smile. “My contracts have clauses that give me full control of this property at any time—I believe this situation calls for my breaking any agreement with Wickedly Weird. But, that's no matter, is it? The police and the federal government are here and I believe we all agree this is best for the remainder of the night. Please. Get some rest. This is terrible, terrible.”

Everyone waited after he spoke. Thor realized they were all looking at him.

And waiting for him to agree.

“At this point, it's as each individual wishes. If you are all in agreement, then we'll thank Mr. Kimball for his hospitality. Everyone here does need some rest,” he said. “We'll make arrangements to get you back to the mainland in the morning.”

“I can take first watch among us,” Jackson murmured.

Thor was too tense to think about sleeping, but Jackson was right. When you were worn-out, you rested. That was the only way you were good to function at full capacity when you were needed.

But he wasn't ready yet.

“Mike,” Thor said, “there are seven guests here—that leaves a room. Get some sleep on something comfortable. I'll wake you in a few hours.”

Mike nodded.

Thor watched as, beneath Marc Kimball's gleeful eyes, everyone moved to claim a room for the night.

He realized that Marc Kimball wasn't just pleased that his suggestion had been taken. He was nearly elated.

And he wasn't just watching
anyone
as they chose rooms.

He was watching Clara Avery.

Thor barely knew the woman. Their acquaintance came from the fact that he'd tackled her in the snow. But there was something about her...pride, humor, intelligence—the sense to be afraid? Thor hadn't realized it at first, but he was intrigued by her.

She was a friend of Jackson's—that was it.

Either that, or...

It wasn't that he was so worried about the young woman, it was that he was so annoyed by Kimball.

The man might be richer than a god, but there was definitely something discomfiting about him. As the others walked off, he heard Kimball's skinny little assistant or secretary ask, “Marc, what about me?”

Marc Kimball didn't seem to hear her.

“You have a room, little lady,” Ralph told her pleasantly. “We only need three of those on our side. And, heck, we're theater people. We can sleep anywhere,” he said proudly. Then he asked, “What's your name, dear?”

“Emmy. Emmy Vincenzo,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” Ralph told her.

Kimball paid them no heed.

He was still watching Clara Avery as she walked down the hallway. She'd shed her parka and outerwear and wore a soft blue cashmere sweater. Long blond hair tumbled down her back and she moved with grace despite her exhaustion. She was a stunning woman, which Thor had noted before. She turned to look back at him—or maybe she was looking for Jackson. But she caught his eyes and she smiled grimly and nodded, as if grateful to rest now, and do so securely.

She looked like a princess, a fairy-tale princess, a Sleeping Beauty.

The thought sent a jolt of white ice shooting through him.

She wasn't part of the Wickedly Weird Production Company. She wasn't the one in real danger here—not from what they had seen so far. It was a stretch for him and Jackson to believe the Fairy Tale Killer might have come here, a complete stretch. This man was out for the reality TV people.

Sleeping Beauty... She would have made a perfect Sleeping Beauty...

He turned away but he saw Jackson watching him. And he knew—just as his old partner knew—that he'd die before anything happened to Clara Avery.

5

T
he Alaska Hut wasn't a bad place to stay, Clara thought. Actually, while its appearance was rustic, the decor was artistically warm and comfortable.

And her day had been...

Sitting. Going from the living room or parlor to the dining room or the kitchen. Of course, before that, she'd run like a crazy person through the snow.

Stumbled upon the corpse of a woman she'd met.

Bisected.

So, maybe it wasn't such a ridiculous thing that she was both exhausted—and wide-awake.

She lay on a comfortable bed—the mattress was Tempur-Pedic, she was pretty sure—staring at the ceiling. She couldn't have begun to sleep in the darkness then and so she had the television on. The police, she understood, were still trying to find the problem with the phone line and so actual communication was out of the question unless she borrowed a police radio.

She lay there grateful that she hadn't mentioned being filmed for
Vacation USA
to her parents as of yet—if they heard about the murder in Seward and on the island, they wouldn't know that she was in any way involved.

Her mom never said
I told you so
. She just worried about her. She hadn't been so bad before the events on the
Destiny
; in fact, she had loved coming aboard the ships Clara had worked on for the last several years.

She wished, of course, that she worked at a local theater—or in New York. She had gone to an audition in New York, as her mom had suggested, and found herself in a cast on a ship. But she had loved sailing and kept at it.

She had great friends. Like Ralph and Larry and Simon. And Alexi, who she missed terribly. But Alexi was in love now, and Clara was delighted for her. Agent Jude McCoy was great; the two were wonderful together.

It was just that Alexi wasn't here.

She shivered suddenly, then wondered why. Not that it was a strange thing to do, with what she had stumbled on that day, but she knew that wasn't the reason.

She was shivering because of Kimball. Something about him made her feel slimy. His flipping hand had seemed slimy!

He hadn't come on to her rudely. He hadn't really come on to her. But she knew he intended to do so.

Maybe she'd been the only woman in the room who had appealed to him. Becca Marle was cute enough, but she was a husky girl and didn't dress in any way to enhance herself. She kept her hair short and boyish. It was probably best for her work, and Becca might just love working sound the same way Clara loved the theater.

And she truly loved the theater—being in it, seeing others in it, musical theater, comedy, drama, anything. It was good; loving theater had made her a fairly sensible and strong person. First, the
don't call us, we'll call you
element meant she knew how to be rejected without taking it personally.

And that had helped in life when her last—actually, her only!—serious relationship had ended. Steve Jenkins had chosen a way of life over her, and she'd seen it and ended their relationship.

She sat up restlessly.

Right now, she even wished Steve was with her. He hadn't been a bad person—he just hadn't had any ambition in life other than hitting the clubs, drinking and sometimes taking his flirting a little too far. He was a talented actor who had lost too many good jobs by not being able to get out of bed in the morning. At first, his grin, his casual attitude and his charm had all swept her away. And then...

Then she'd paid the rent one too many times, picked him up outside a bar one too many times, and she'd realized that they both wanted different things and it wasn't going to change. She'd headed to New York City, gone to a number of auditions, and been called for a touring company aboard a ship.

She'd been sailing ever since. Her brother asked her once if she was trying to sail away from herself.

Clara rose. She'd shed her jeans and sweater but not her tank top or underwear; she wished she had a pair of her flannel pajamas, but while she'd found toothpaste, soap, shampoo, razors and anything a guest might have needed—including condoms!—in the bathroom, there were no nightclothes. She was, in truth, just really grateful for the toothbrush.

She found a flannel robe with
The Alaska Hut
embroidered over the pocket. Slipping it on, she cracked open her door. She didn't recognize the policeman in the hall, but she assumed he was the next shift. He smiled at her and tipped his hat.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you. I just thought I'd make myself some tea,” Clara told him. She hesitated. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

He smiled. “Thank you very much. I'll be on watch here in the hall. I just came on—don't need anything. You're safe, you know.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She realized that she'd been unnerved and horrified—but not really worried about her own safety. With everyone telling her that she was safe, she was getting worried!

Maybe she'd put a shot of whiskey in her tea.

The kitchen would have made a great advertisement for every new appliance out there. One machine made almost every form of coffee or espresso known to man. Another made customized fizzy drinks.

One just heated water—but a nearby box offered the widest assortment of tea she had ever seen.

She chose a chamomile and set it and the cup in the proper slots in the machine and folded her arms to wait the sixty seconds it would take.

That's when the unease settled over her—and she was certain she was being watched.

Kimball—it was creepy Marc Kimball! she thought.

But it was a different kind of feeling.

She looked over to the log-framed kitchen doorway.

She was grateful she wasn't holding a cup of scalding water; she would have dropped it.

She almost screamed.

But it was as it had been earlier; she was too stunned, too bone-deep terrified, to make a sound.

Amelia Carson was standing there. She was wearing jeans and a fluffy pink parka, the hood over her dark hair. She reached out a hand, as if she were trying to touch Clara.

“Please,” she said simply.

Clara blinked.

It had to be a joke; the whole thing was still a joke, and somehow they had gotten Jackson Crow in on it. She was being filmed. Amelia hadn't really been dead in the snow...

She heard a sob.

And then, she heard the officer in the hallway call out to her. “Miss? Everything all right?”

The vision before her evaporated. Clara didn't look away.

She didn't blink.

The image simply...disappeared into mist and then into nothingness.

Where Amelia Carson had been, there was just air. Beyond that air, his face obscured by the living room shadows, was the FBI man, Thor Erikson.

She just stood there, afraid to move, afraid to give away any indication she had just seen a dead woman before her.

But Thor Erikson came striding toward her then and she saw the intensity in his ice-blue eyes. He caught her by the wrist and spoke with a deep, ragged voice. “You saw her, too.”

Clara blinked at last.

They'd said that the
Destiny
was filled with ghosts. Clara knew that Alexi had seen them.

And maybe Clara had sensed things or thought that she had, but...

Alexi had seen and spoken with the dead—so she had sworn. And when she had talked about it, sometimes, Clara had actually believed in ghosts...

But...

She had never seen a full-blown image such as this, as if the dead woman in the snow had come back to life.

In one piece.

“I saw her. But you saw her—I know that you did. I saw your face. She spoke to you. What did she say?”

Clara shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Amelia Carson.”

“Amelia Carson is dead. We saw her—both halves of her,” Clara said.

His eyes really could be so cold, and like ice, they could burn.

She was afraid. Afraid as she had never been before.

And too afraid to admit what she had seen.

“Let me go, Agent Erikson. Let me go, please!” she said.

He released her instantly. She forgot all about tea and hurried back to her room, closing the door behind her.

Then, just as quickly, she opened her door.

If she saw anything again, anything at all, she was going to scream. She was happy to have the door open, knowing a police officer walked the corridor.

But could a police officer save her from the dead?

Or was Amelia dead? That was it—the whole thing was a hoax. A massive hoax. She'd seen ridiculously expensive things done by
Gotcha
before. They'd hired a whole crew of actors to pose as police officers; Jackson—hard to believe as it was!—had been coerced to come in on the prank; and in the morning, Amelia and Natalie would be there, laughing at a prank done in the worst taste known to man!

She was overtired; her nerves were completely on edge.

They couldn't get Jackson Crow in on such a ridiculous scheme, could they?

Jackson was head of the Krewe of Hunters. The Krewe stepped in when the unusual seemed to be part of the horror that was happening.

The unusual...such as ghosts.

No, no, it couldn't be real. It was smoke and mirrors, it was trickery—it was the magic of film.

She wasn't even sure what she was doing when she went back out.

The officer in the hall spoke to her. “More tea?” he asked sympathetically.

She ignored him and returned to the kitchen. Thor Erikson was sitting on a rustic stool by the island counter. He looked at her, frowning.

She walked back over to the stove area, tired, and yet suddenly determined that she was going to have the truth—whatever it might be.

“I have to admit, you look good. And them getting Jackson in on it—coup d'état!” she said.

“What?”

“You know, trust me, I've been acting for years. I am not a household name, but I love what I do, and I survive at it. If that's what you're looking for, there are much better ways to get ahead. How did you come into doing this? You're really in great shape—that usually means a stripper trying to break into movies. Hey, I have plenty of friends who have tried it for a while—good money, I've been told. Allows you lots of time for auditions. But, honestly, using this
Gotcha
thing to try to break in? What, you're trying to be a television personality? Whatever, I have had it! This is it—it ends here!”

He stared at her, frowning, his expression confused at first, then incredulous, and then hard and angry.

Maybe he could make it as an actor.

“Miss Avery, I believe that even an actress accustomed to dealing in the world of fantasy should have grasped this situation by now. I don't know—”

“Stop! Both of you!”

Clara knew, before she turned, who was speaking. An eerie sensation snaked up the length of her spine and radiated throughout her.

She's here again. Amelia Carson.

But she stood there for just one moment, looking at the two of them pleadingly.

Then the officer who had been in the hall was at Clara's side, shaking his head. “Miss... Agent Erikson? Is something wrong?”

Before either of them could answer him, it seemed that a crowd had formed; Clara realized that she'd been all but shouting when she'd spoken to Agent Erikson.

They appeared like a very strange Greek chorus. Ralph, Simon and Larry bundled in the Alaska Hut robes, the cops in uniform, a very sleepy Agent Aklaq still in rumpled plain clothes and then the film crew—Nate, Becca and Thomas—coming up from the other hallway. Magda and Justin Crowley were there, looking very grumpy in their own robes.

Obviously they'd been sleeping just fine until the commotion in the kitchen had wakened them.

Clara realized that Jackson was there, as well, alert—ready to come to her defense if necessary.

“What? What? What's going on?” Mike demanded.

Thor Erikson looked at Clara as if she had just caused the roof to collapse.

“I believe Miss Avery is having trouble sleeping,” he said.

“Miss Avery! Oh, my dear Miss Avery!”

Marc Kimball had joined them—his dressing gown was more elegant than the rest, made of an exceptionally fine fabric. And, of course, the minute he was out, his little assistant, Emmy, came running out as well, and more state police seemed to materialize from nowhere.

Clara felt like a deer caught in blinding headlights.

Marc Kimball broke through to set his hands sympathetically on her shoulders. “I'm so sorry. What can I do to help you through this ghastly night?”

She tried desperately to think quickly, wishing that sensations and emotions were not racing through her like wildfire. The image of Amelia Carson had just disappeared again—right when the state cop had come to stand
exactly where she had been.

It might have been a projected image?

She lowered her head—also feeling clammy and almost
dirty
somehow because Marc Kimball was touching her, because it seemed that she breathed in something that wasn't evil, but...

Slimy.

“Clara,” Jackson said, coming through the crowd. “I guess we're all having trouble trying to get some sleep. Perhaps, since you're awake, you wouldn't mind coming into the office? I think you might be able to give me a hand with something—a timetable?”

She had lost her mind for a few minutes there. No way in hell would Jackson Crow be involved in such a farce and no way in hell would he chance anything ridiculous for his precious Krewe of Hunters.

She swallowed hard, wanting to scream and shake off Marc Kimball's touch. Thor Erikson had risen and done so in such a way that he forced Marc Kimball back.

She didn't particularly want to feel she owed the man in any way, but at that moment, she was eternally grateful.