Читать книгу Deadly Fate - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9
ОглавлениеThor was at a disadvantage.
The young woman he tackled hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to his words or his tap on her back, and she’d gone completely ballistic when he’d tried to stop her.
Now she fought and kicked like a banshee.
“Miss, miss, please!” he tried again.
Maybe she was deaf.
He was trying hard not to hurt her, but she had the athletic agility of a cat and managed a right hook to his jaw that would have done a boxer proud.
She was in panic—and he understood. But, hell! At some point she had to realize...
“Stop!” he snapped, catching her shoulders and straddling her. “Stop, please! FBI. Special Agent Thor Erikson. FBI! Stop!”
And then, she did, at last.
She stared up at him, blinked, her expression unchanging.
He immediately wondered who she was; the woman beneath him had fair skin, brilliantly blue eyes and a long mop of golden hair beneath the hood of her snow jacket—hair that tumbled around her face in wild strands after their altercation. He found himself tensing; she looked like a fairy-tale princess, a Sleeping Beauty beyond a doubt. Her features were delicate and well-formed, her lips were full—more blue out in the cold than red, but rich and full—and he imagined they could curl into the perfect bow of a smile.
She wasn’t smiling. She stared at him blankly.
“FBI,” he repeated. “You’re safe,” he said.
She seemed to digest that for a minute and then breathed softly. “Really?”
He didn’t get off her, but he sat back carefully on his haunches to produce his credentials.
She looked at them.
He had a feeling, though, that in her mind it was the fact that she was still alive more than his identification that convinced her of the truth.
“Really,” he said.
She stared at him suspiciously—and stared at the documents again. “Thor?” she said.
“Yes, Thor. Thor Erikson.”
“It sounds made up.”
“It is made up. My parents—Heidi and Olaf Erikson—made it up when I was born!”
Again, she was silent for a minute, and then she said, “If that’s the truth, perhaps you wouldn’t mind getting off me? It’s very, very cold.”
He quickly rose and offered her a hand. She seemed to hesitate before accepting it, but then she did, trying to dust some of the snow off herself after she had risen. “Have you seen...?” she asked then.
“Miss...?” he began.
“Avery. Clara Avery,” she said. “Have you seen... Oh, God. The film crew—they’re all dead. Some at the Mansion...and now...here.”
“Miss Avery, I was just at the Mansion. I’m afraid that you’ve been misled because of a sick prank. The scene you discovered there was completely fabricated by set and scene designers for an episode of Gotcha.”
“No,” she murmured. She blinked, as if unable to assimilate that anyone could do such a thing as a prank.
Frankly, he couldn’t begin to understand it, either.
“Yes, Miss Avery. But, I’m sorry to say—”
“Even the—the body in the snow?”
He’d meant to tell her about Natalie Fontaine, but before he could do so, she had interrupted.
“What body in the snow?” he asked.
Her brows hiked up. “You didn’t see it?”
“No. I saw you—I tried to get you to stop, to listen to me.”
“You tackled me,” she muttered, and she seemed to be aggravated and angry—at the film people or him, he wasn’t sure, or maybe even herself—and apparently even more disgusted by the body in the snow.
“Where is this body?” he asked.
She pointed over a little rise of snow. “There,” she said.
It was probably more of the horror created by Wickedly Weird.
“A body...um, two pieces,” she said.
He didn’t reply; he headed over the rise in the direction she had pointed.
Then he saw the drops of blood.
And then the dead woman.
A dead woman, in two pieces, as she had said.
He had witnessed pictures of a scene like this, too.
And then he knew what kicked in his memory.
The Black Dahlia.
This woman had been cut in two...and lain out just like the Black Dahlia. An unsolved murder; he had seen crime scene photos in one of the numerous classes he was always taking on criminology for the FBI.
He hoped against hope that this was another horror vignette by the Gotcha people.
But, as he neared the bisected body, and smelled the tinny scent of real blood, he knew that it was not.
He pulled out his radio and called back to the state police and Mike.
“We have another corpse,” he said quietly. “A real one.”
* * *
The city was filled with cell phones, PA systems, rapid response teams, computers, and all manner of tools and aids for investigation.
All of that was moot on Black Bear Island. Phones never seemed to work; the internet needed to be reconnected.
He had his walkie-talkie, and he had a corpse in the snow, and a woman standing so still she might have been a statue—except that she shook like blue blazes.
He shouldn’t leave the corpse; he really shouldn’t keep a witness standing there.
But there had to be something there that suggested how the killer had come and gone, what weapon or weapons he had used—and where the hell he was now. But there seemed to be nothing; just the victim, bisected, dead in the snow. Not enough blood for the young woman to have been murdered where she lay, so she must have been brought out here—and cut in half.
By what instrument? It wasn’t easy to do—unless you happened to know how to use a French headsman’s sword or a Japanese samurai sword, a machete or a chain saw. But a chain saw would have left little bits of flesh abounding around the body, like wood chips...
There were no prints in the snow. Nothing leading away from the disposal of the body. It looked as if the victim might have been teleported to where she lay.
It wouldn’t take Mike long to get there. Thor carefully skirted the body and hiked over the little rise. The snow there was already trodden and thrown—it was where he and the shaking blond had wound up in their ridiculous tussle.
His jaw still hurt. The woman knew how to throw a right hook.
“So horrible!” she whispered, as if to herself and not to him.
“You went to the Mansion?” he said.
She nodded jerkily. “I told you that I did—and what I saw!”
He didn’t know why—especially with his jaw still hurting—but he put his hands on her shoulders, causing her to actually look at him and heed his words. “And I told you. No one there is dead. Those are mannequins at the Mansion.”
It took a second for that to register in her mind. He saw anger filter into her eyes. “It was all a joke for that ridiculous show Gotcha?” she demanded.
“Not all,” he said quietly. “The woman in the snow is really dead.” He hesitated. “Natalie Fontaine is dead, too.”
Her eyes widened again. He realized just how striking she was then. The color of her eyes was blue, and yet a blue nothing at all like his ice color. Her eyes were deep and rich, almost a royal blue, and set against features with fine bone structure, arched honey brows and a perfectly straight nose.
Her face was flushed, of course. Reddened from their scramble in the snow.
“Natalie...and Amelia?” she whispered, as if the two women being dead was the most confusing possibility known to man.
“You knew them well?” he asked quietly.
“I had just met them. Still...”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“But, but my friends...are here. Somewhere. And if all the people at the house...if the scene wasn’t real... I don’t understand what’s going on at all, but I know that my friends are supposed to be on the island somewhere. Cast mates, from the show we’re doing on the ship. They headed out before me—they’re here on the island.”
The next sentences lay unspoken between them.
They are here. Dead or alive, no one knows.
The way she looked at him now, he wondered if she really believed that he was who he was—and whether he still might intend to kill her.
She seemed to shrink beneath his hold.
She lowered her head and inched back half a foot—as if anxious to be free from his touch.
Then she looked up at him and there was a hard strength that she’d forced into her features. “I came for Vacation USA. That’s what the head of entertainment for Celtic American asked me to do. The other cast members—except for our ingenue, who is finishing up a previous engagement—came here ahead of me this morning. But that was a hoax, you’re telling me? They were going to try to scare us half to death to film us for Gotcha. So those corpses at the Mansion weren’t real. But, Amelia is really...dead. And Natalie Fontaine is dead, too. That is the real situation?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Miss Avery, have you seen anyone else here on the island—alive?”
She looked at him with alarm. “Oh, God! Oh, God, Simon... Larry... Ralph!”
She turned and started to run. He tore after her. He realized that she was headed for the Alaska Hut.
He didn’t want to tackle her again. But he also didn’t want her rushing into the building if there was a sword/knife/machete-wielding killer awaiting her.
“Miss Avery!”
She kept running.
No choice.
He caught her by the shoulders and they went down together again. She started to fight him but he gripped her hard.
“Wait!” he said firmly. “Let me go first—”
“My friends—”
“I have a gun. You don’t!” he snapped.
She went still and nodded at that, probably realizing the folly of running into the unknown. Thor rose, not waiting for her to accept an offered hand, just pulling her back up with him. They were both covered in snow. He went first, moving with good speed through the soft snow. He heard her behind him. At the door of the rustic log cabin, he pulled his weapon, and then threw the wooden door open.
A flash of light went off.
“Gotcha!” someone shouted.
He assessed that six people were there, five men, one woman; the lone woman held a microphone, while one man held a large camera.
The woman dropped the microphone and screamed as she noted that he was wielding a gun.
“FBI,” he said quickly.
From behind him, Clara Avery went tearing through, throwing herself into the arms of a tall blond man.
“What the hell...?” the man asked.
“Natalie Fontaine is dead,” Clara said. “And...and Amelia Carson. She’s dead—dead in the snow.”
“No, no!” the woman in the group said, trying to ascertain how badly she had damaged the microphone she’d dropped. “No, it’s all just for Gotcha. See the mic you made me drop? I’m Becca Marle, sound. It’s—it’s just a joke,” she finished weakly.
A man at her side, slightly older, spoke up. “Tommy Marchant, cameraman, videographer... We’re filming them. That’s it. See, we got your cast mates before you, too—they also thought it was real. Maybe they decided to join in and scare us as well or...”
He desperately wanted his words to be true.
“No,” Thor said harshly, holstering his gun and producing his credentials. “No—the scene at the Mansion might have been for your show, but Miss Fontaine and Miss Carson are dead.”
“Don’t try to trick a trickster,” one of the men protested. “What—are you from dial-a-stripper or something? Set up to play bad cop? Hey, don’t mess with me. I’m Nate Mahoney, best young fabricator coming up the ranks. Trust me, I know I’m good. But it’s for TV, it’s for a show, a reality show.”
Thor had to take in a deep breath. “The reality is,” he said sharply, “that the two women are really dead.”
They all stared at him, disbelieving.
“It’s true!” Clara Avery said. “I saw Amelia.”
Thor noted the grouping: the film people huddled together, and Clara in the arms of the tall blond man who somehow seemed to have “actor” written all over him. Another young man was next to him, and a third, solid man—closer to middle-aged—stood protectively by Clara, as well.
For a moment, they were all silent.
Disbelief began to change to confusion—and horror.
Gotcha. Great.
The sound of a snowmobile broke through. Thor turned. Mike—followed by members of the state police on their vehicles—were arriving at the Alaska Hut at last.
Thor pointed at the group. “Stay here, right where you are. Who else is here that you all know about?”
No one answered at first. They all just stared at him. No one seemed to comprehend the situation.
“Who else is here?” he demanded roughly.
“Um, um...the housekeeper. And the groundskeeper...the Crowley couple,” the woman, fumbling awkwardly with the fallen microphone, managed to say.
“Get them, please. Bring everyone to the parlor,” he said curtly. They all continued to stare at him.
“Now,” he said loudly and firmly, adding, “Please!”
He wasn’t sure if they moved or not. He turned to greet Mike and the others. Someone needed to draw a perimeter around the body—the body pieces—of Amelia Carson.
Forensic teams needed to get out to the island.
And they had to determine if a killer was in the Alaska Hut...
Or watching them all with glee from somewhere on the cold and windswept island.
Gotcha.
Sadly, death was the reality now.
* * *
Safe.
Clara had reached the Alaska Hut at last.
She wasn’t alone—and she didn’t need to be afraid. She was surrounded by policemen and FBI agents, and other scared and frightened members of her own cast and crew and the film crew.
She sat in a chair at the kitchen table, a blanket around her shoulders, a cup of hot coffee in her hands—and still she was shivering.
“Come, let’s sail the Alaskan cruise, it will be different, it will be fun!” Ralph Martini, at her side, murmured. “Fun!” he sniffed. He glanced over at Clara and then winced. “Sorry,” he said softly.
“No, it’s all right—it was my idea for us all to work on this cruise,” Clara said. She still felt like an ice cube even though the log cabin that was the Alaska Hut was well heated. She knew that the numbness was inside her. She was managing to speak, to sound somewhat coherent—and to take it all in.
The truth of everything was beginning to sink into her consciousness and comprehension. What was real and what was not.
The Mansion—where she had stumbled upon all kinds of horrors—had not offered anything real. She’d run from an imaginary foe when she’d left the place, too terrified to scream. Cameras had been shooting her movements. She shouldn’t have been there alone, though. She should have been there with Natalie Fontaine.
Except she knew now that Natalie Fontaine was dead—but not among the carnage that had appeared to fill the Mansion. She’d never made it to the island. She was dead back at her hotel room.
Decapitated.
While the members of the Fate cast had traveled to the island—Ralph, Simon and Larry had come together. They’d arrived at the Mansion about a half hour before Clara. They had also screamed their way out and run to the Alaska Hut—only they hadn’t stumbled upon the body of Amelia Carson along the way.
Cameras rigged at the Mansion would have captured first the terror—and then what was supposed to have been a laugh.
No one was laughing.
Because of what had happened to Natalie, Misty Blaine hadn’t gone to the island, and Amelia Carson hadn’t been there because she’d been dead, as well.
According to Nate Mahoney—who had spoken as if he’d become a zombie himself—it would have been a great crossover. The cast would have been featured on Gotcha, and then on Vacation USA as wonderful people who had come to work an Alaskan cruise, talking about why they loved the state so very much.
At the moment, Clara wasn’t sure that she loved Alaska at all. But then, she was still in shock, she assumed.
“It really doesn’t have anything at all to do with the ship,” Larry Hepburn said, trying to speak lightly.
“That’s right,” Simon Green said. “This is someone—someone who hates reality TV. And, I mean, that’s half of America. Some shows are cool—you know, where they save people or really give people jobs at the end. But, most of it...”
His voice trailed off.
“Alaska is beautiful,” Ralph said.
Clara looked at the three men at the table with her. Ralph Martini, kick-ass tenor, star of many a Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off-Broadway show. Simon Green, new kid on the block, early twenties, thrilled to have his first speaking role/solo song in Annabelle Lee, the play they were set to perform on the Fate the following Saturday night. Larry Hepburn, tall, blond, bronzed—everyone’s golden-hunk guy, leading man for the play.
They’d all worked the Caribbean and Mexico together on the Celtic American Line’s Destiny ship—until a serial killer had been taken down aboard. Clara had known she was in danger on the ship, but she had never faced anything like this, nor had she stumbled upon a dead body then...a dead body in two pieces.
Not that the previous situation hadn’t been awful. And naturally, after it had all happened, she’d wanted to go in a new direction.
When she’d learned about Annabelle Lee, her new path had seemed perfectly clear. Alaska! What could be more different from the sunny Caribbean? And the cast called for a middle-aged tenor in a great role as the father of the house—Ralph!—as well as two younger men and two younger women. Larry and Simon fit the bill perfectly for Ashley, the haunted husband, and Billie Boy, Annabelle’s brother. Clara had gotten the role of Annabelle, the light and ethereal ghost still longing for life, while Connie Shaw, great dark-haired alto, was the young hero’s new wife, having to deal with the ghost of the past—who just didn’t want to go away.
Simon, heroically trying to save Clara’s friend Alexi Cromwell when they were on the Destiny, had broken a leg in a fall down a flight of stairs on the ship. His injury was healing nicely, but since he was a song-and-dance man, it was great that this show only required a few ballroom-dancing numbers between the ghost and Ashley, played by Larry Hepburn. It made the part perfect for Simon while he continued working his rehab exercises on his leg.
It had seemed so good. And so they had all headed up to Seward. She’d heard about the beauty of Alaska for years from other performers with whom she’d worked. Clara had come as soon as possible—longing to see as much as she could of Seward before going into the long days and nights of rehearsals. She’d spent time at the museum, learning about the native people, the first Russians on the scene, “Seward’s Folly,” the quake that had devastated the area in 1964, and more. She’d been able to take a small local cruise to see the majesty of the glaciers, giant whales breeching, the power of falling ice...but there was so much more she wanted to discover. The wildlife, dogsled races, the raw geography of the area, Kenai Fjords National Park—everything that made Alaska so special and different. And, eventually, she would find the time, but then...
The time she had given herself just hadn’t been enough.
Rehearsals had started, and then Celtic American had contacted her and some of the others about filming for Vacation USA and she had met with Natalie Fontaine and agreed to head out on the ferry and meet her at the Mansion, and then the blood and guts that had been fake and now...
Now the blood and guts that were real.
Simon, slim, young and earnest, reached over for her hand. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Yeah,” Ralph said. “None of us blames you.”
“Blames me!” she repeated, staring at him, her temper rising. “Blames me? For what? Hey—you guys were out of a job. The ship was being held for months. I found out about this opportunity and told you about it!”
“I could have been playing that new role on Broadway,” Ralph said.
Clara felt the frown that gripped her brow. “That role is being played by Jeff Goldblum. I don’t think you should have counted on it—no offense, Ralph. Mr. Goldblum does have one hell of a résumé.”
Ralph sniffed.
“Hey—I’m happy. I’m out of the chorus,” Simon said. He smiled at Clara. “And I know I wouldn’t have any role on Broadway!”
“That didn’t come out right,” Ralph murmured. “I’m sorry, Clara. Really. I mean, this is going to be okay. This doesn’t have to do with us. This has to do with someone who really, really, really hates reality TV.”
Clara was silent. She prayed it went beyond that. One woman decapitated; one woman cut in half. That seemed like a lot more than anger.
“Miss Avery?”
She looked up. It was the wall of an FBI man who had pitched her down into the snow—and scared her out of ten years of life. She realized that she hadn’t been thinking FBI because these guys looked so different. He’d been bundled up in an official parka; now, he had doffed the jacket and he looked like a Norse lumberjack. He was Norse—he had said so. Norse American, obviously. He was very tall—possibly six-four or six-five—and definitely built like a logger. But then, she’d spent enough time with Jude McCoy and Jackson Crow of the FBI to know that they took their work seriously. They went to the gun range frequently, and they went regularly to the gym, since their strength and agility in the field could be just as important as tools of their trade.
“Your turn for the grill—I guess we come right after you,” Ralph murmured.
She supposed that they would. The state cops who had arrived first on the scene with a second FBI man had stayed with the cast where they were grouped together at the kitchen table. Clara knew that, a little more than a hundred yards away, police, FBI, techs and whoever else, were still working on the crime scene. So far the living film crew on the island—Nate Mahoney, Becca Marle and Tommy Marchant—had been questioned at the Alaska Hut. Clara felt bad for them; she’d only met Natalie Fontaine and Amelia Carson once. But that crew had worked with the two women hand in hand for several years.
Now, she wondered where the three of them had gone—or if law enforcement was purposely keeping them all apart.
Or, if they were lucky, and are already off this wretched island.
“Miss Avery?”
He had to repeat her name. She rose and followed him out of the kitchen. She passed through the dining room and the cozy parlor with its raw wood furniture and huge stone hearth to the office straight across from the kitchen.
There, Special Agent Thor Erikson indicated that she take a chair.
“You all right?” he asked her.
“Just great,” she replied. “Nothing like being taken with a bunch of fake blood—and nearly plowing into a pool of the real stuff.”
“If it makes you feel better, there was less blood than there could have been,” he said. “Miss Carson was apparently killed elsewhere—and dumped where she was found.”
Clara didn’t react in any way; she didn’t know the proper reaction to such words.
“Why were you running?” he asked her.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked.
“No,” he said very seriously. “I don’t kid under circumstances like this.”
Well, of course you don’t.
She almost snapped the words out, but refrained. “Surely, sir, you’re aware that I was at the Mansion. And I believe you saw the Mansion?”
“Fake,” he said. “All for the cameras.”
“Yes, well, Agent Erikson, you knew that. I did not.”
“But why did you run out here?”
“The hut is out here! I hoped to God I’d find friends at the hut, film crew, people—anyone other than whoever did that!”
“You acted as if you were being chased.”
“I was being chased.”
“By who?”
“By whoever killed all those people—I assumed,” she said.
“Did you have reason to believe someone was after you?” he asked her, frowning.
“Yes, I heard something,” she said.
“Heard it from where?” he asked her.
“In the house—the Mansion. I didn’t go in very far. I came up the front steps. I opened the door to the mudroom, and then to the foyer. And then...then I stared in horror at what I thought was a massacre.”
“You didn’t call out—you didn’t scream?”
She shook her head. “I was too—too terrified to scream. Then I started to back out of the house and...yes! I’m certain that I heard someone upstairs. And by what I saw...it might have been whoever did this. So I turned to run out and as I did so...yes! Yes, I heard someone on the stairs. So I started to run as hard as I could. I figured my only hope for help was the Alaska Hut. I didn’t know what had happened at the Mansion, only that no one—no one living—was there to meet me. And I knew that part of the filming was supposed to be at the Alaska Hut. I figured people had to be there—someone who could help.”
“What if you had found the same thing here, at the Alaska Hut?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I didn’t think like that. I couldn’t think like that. If so...”
She didn’t say it aloud. Maybe if she had allowed herself to think the worst, she would have just lain down in the snow to die.
“But you’re positive you heard someone.”
She nodded. “Pretty positive.”
“Pretty positive.”
Annoyance shot through her like a bolt. “Look, I’m not an agent. I’m not a cop. I don’t even like horror movies. I live alone. I like musicals and The Big Bang Theory and reruns of Friends and Frasier and I Love Lucy. I never even watched shows like Gotcha. I don’t think I knew it existed. I was scared out of my wits and I ran, pretty darned certain that I’d heard someone and that if I didn’t want to be minced meat, too, I needed to run and pray for help.”
“We haven’t found anyone on the island so far,” he told her.
“Well, you don’t think that I paused in running from the house to chop a sweet stranger in half, do you?” she demanded, her temper flaring.
“I thought you knew Miss Carson.”
“I met her once. Yesterday. The first time I was out here on the island. I met with Natalie Fontaine and Amelia Carson at the Mansion and then Tommy Marchant—their cameraman—gave me a tour of the island in a snowmobile thing that seats two. I knew where the Mansion was in relation to the Alaska Hut. I know now where there are heavily forested sections of the island and where there’s ice down to the water. I know the dock. That’s what I know. To the best of my knowledge, you can reach this place by private boat and ferry and that’s it. I’m not a regular at wild parties here, Agent. I sure as hell don’t know what more you want from me!”
“Cooperation!” he exploded.
He leaned back in the office chair, hands gripping the sides. If he’d had longer hair, been wearing furs, and maybe had an Irish wolfhound at his side, he’d have looked like a conquering Viking.
“Miss Avery, as you might have noticed, there’s a heinous killer at work here. Two people you knew were brutally murdered. I’d like every bit of help you can give me—if I’m not keeping you from an episode of Friends for too long!”
She stiffened as if she’d been hit by lightning.
“I’m trying to help! And don’t you give me this holier-than-thou speech! I know how to cooperate. I’ve worked with the FBI, real FBI, good FBI agents! They were all there when the Archangel came on the Destiny and—”
“What?” He leaned forward suddenly, staring at her as if he was convinced that she had suddenly announced that she was the Archangel herself.
She foundered. “I was last supposed to be performing on Celtic American Cruise Line’s Destiny. We never did do the show. There was a storm at sea and a killer on the ship and, thankfully, Special Agents Crow and McCoy and...”
Her voice trailed off. He was still staring at her.
“Look. I’m sorry. I know I’m being rude. I’m sure you’re an excellent agent.” She stopped speaking again. She was afraid she’d spill out something like So, you see, I do know how agents should act! You think you’re tough, huh. Yeah. You’ve got the look. You could be an actor. You’d make an excellent Viking. I could totally see you in The 13th Warrior. And you’d have been great in Thor, given Chris Hemsworth a run for his money—move over, Stellan Skarsgård.
Thankfully, she managed not to speak.
They were both still staring at each other when there was a rap at the door and it opened a shade.
“Thor?”
Clara knew the voice; she knew it because she had depended on Jackson Crow as if he were a lifeline when she’d been on the Destiny.
The man in front of her blinked. He stood, recognizing the new arrival, as well.
“Jackson,” he said.
Clara leaned back for a minute, just breathing. Then she, too, rose to her feet and turned to the door.
Jackson Crow had arrived. He was busy shedding a huge parka. He hadn’t taken note of her yet; he walked across the room.
She’d expected that maybe such manly agents greeted one another with stiff handshakes, but she was mistaken. The two embraced in a fierce hug instead.
“How the hell are you?” Crow demanded.
“Pretty good—until this morning,” Thor Erikson said.
“Yeah, me, too,” Crow said, and Clara was startled by the timbre of emotion in his voice.
She didn’t know what was going on. Surely, neither of these men had known the victims.
They spoke quickly for a moment in a conversation that meant little to her—but seemed to make perfect sense to the two of them.
Crow first. “You heard, then.”
“Didn’t believe it. How the hell...?” Erikson responded.
“It’s the system. Criminals who are incarcerated will find a way out.”
“Damn, someone out there should have known—should have watched him better.”
“Should have. But this isn’t—”
“The same. No. I’ve seen the remains.”
And then, it was as if they both realized she was in the room. They were an intriguing pair, both so tall, the one dark, the other so light. And while they were perplexed, there was also something solid and reassuring about them together—as if they were godlike sentinels of old.
Jackson Crow saw her then. “Clara, poor Clara!” He walked toward her.
She hurried to him and he encompassed her in his arms.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Crow told her.
Agent Erikson cleared his throat. “I’m just beginning to get the gist of this. You were all aboard the Destiny when the Archangel was caught.”
“Myself and Jude McCoy, Miss Avery and her actor friends out there,” Jackson Crow told him. Clara realized she was still clinging to Crow like a lifeline. She managed to straighten herself. Agent Erikson was looking from one of them to the other. He shook his head and sank back in his chair.
“Miss Avery found the second body,” he said.
Jackson Crow looked at her. “Clara, Lord, how horrible. I’m sure you came up here to get away from what happened in the Caribbean.”
Clara shrugged uneasily, aware that Erikson was looking at her as if she somehow brought bad things with her wherever she went, like an unlucky penny.
Jackson Crow looked over at Thor Erikson. “What else did you need from her?”
“Anything, everything. When you met with Ms. Fontaine and Ms. Carson, Miss Avery, were they nervous in any way? Did they make any comments of being afraid of anyone in Alaska? Did they suggest that they had received any threats?”
Clara shook her head. “We met. Natalie made sure I was aware that Celtic American was wholeheartedly for the cast joining her show for the segment—it would be wonderful publicity for them. I’d already signed all kinds of waivers for the show.”
“Which, of course, you didn’t really read,” Thor said.
Clara stiffened but forced a pleasant smile. “Actually, I did read what I was signing. The problem is that you sign for the parent company, which meant they could use us in their silly Gotcha show, as well. I didn’t realize it at the time—hindsight is wonderful. Have you never thought that, Agent Erikson?”
“I don’t think there’s anything more that Clara can give you right now,” Jackson Crow said quietly. “Give her some time. If there is something, she’ll think of it. And she will help in any way she can.”
Erikson inclined his head.
“I need to speak with everyone involved,” Thor said. He looked at Clara. “So, your entire cast was on the Destiny with another serial killer.”
“Not the entire cast, no,” Clara said. We have one new member we haven’t worked with yet—she’s not on the island, though.
She really hated the third degree she was getting. She might have been brutally victimized here—and the man behaved as if he was suspicious of a group of actors escaping the horror of what had happened.
“For your information, Special Agent, Simon was nearly killed himself while trying to save a friend of ours from the Archangel. He’s still healing from a broken leg he received from a brush with the killer. He is certainly something of a hero. You have no right to treat us as if we’re involved in this horror in any way. Ask Jackson—he sailed on the Destiny.” Clara hoped her righteous indignation was cool and mature.
“Miss Avery,” Erikson said, “I’m sorry for what you endured—in the past, and today. The Archangel is dead. Whoever is responsible for this butchery might have just gotten started. I’m doing my best to see that the killer is caught before someone else is murdered. If that offends your sensibilities, I do apologize. But it doesn’t change the fact that you all are on an island where a woman has been cut in half. So, I will ask you all, bear with me.”
How the hell could she be so right and this man still be able to make her feel like a plaintive schoolgirl?
She thanked God for her theatrical training and didn’t react in the least.
“Shall I send someone else in?” she asked.
He nodded at her. “Yes, please.” He looked at her keenly, and she had the odd feeling that he was inwardly shaking his head at her behavior—despite the fact that Jackson Crow had spoken so well for her.
Well, you’re a jerk! she thought. Tackling me into the snow—twice!
“I will seriously try to help in any way that I can,” she said evenly.
“There’s always hope,” he said. “Miss Avery, you do realize there’s a key word in what I’m telling you,” Erikson said.
She remained still.
“Island,” he said. “Either the killer knows Alaska like the back of his hand, such that he knew how to get here, kill and leave—or he is still here, perhaps among you and your friends.”
