Alaska—the final frontier?

When Clara Avery, an entertainer working on the Fate, an Alaskan cruise ship, goes to nearby Bear Island, she comes across a scene of bloody mayhem. She also comes across Thor Erikson, who will soon be a member of the FBI’s elite paranormal unit, the Krewe of Hunters.

Thor’s been sent from the Alaska field office to investigate several grotesque killings, with the dead posed to resemble the victims of notorious murderers. The prime suspect is a serial killer Thor once put behind bars. The man escaped from a prison in the Midwest, and all the evidence says he was headed to Alaska...

Thor and Clara share an unusual skill: the ability to communicate with the dead. Their growing love—and their contact with the ghosts of the victims—brings them together to solve the case…and prevent a deadly fate of their own!

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“With an astonishing ease and facility, this talented and hard-working writer can cast her stories in any genre.”

—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels

“Once again, Heather Graham has outdone herself. The Betrayed took me on a fantastic trip to Sleepy Hollow and I’d travel with Graham anywhere… This chilling novel has everything: suspense, romance, intrigue and an ending that takes your breath away.”

—Suspense Magazine

“[Waking the Dead] is not to be missed.”

—BookTalk

“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life, using exceptionally vivid details to add depth to all the people and places.”

—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead, Top Pick

“Murder, intrigue…a fast-paced read. You may never know in advance what harrowing situations Graham will place her characters in, but…rest assured that the end result will be satisfying.”

—Suspense Magazine on Let the Dead Sleep

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“Suspenseful and dark.… The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

CAST OF CHARACTERS

FBI Agents

Jackson Crow, head of the Krewe of Hunters

Angela Hawkins, special agent and Jackson’s wife

Thor Erikson, new member of the Krewe

in the Alaska Field Office

Mike Aklaq, Thor’s partner

Other Law Enforcement

Reginald Enfield, Special Director, Alaska

Lieutenant Bill Meyer, Alaska State Police

The Fairy Tale Killer

Tate Morley, serial killer in Kansas,

recently escaped from prison

From the Past

Mandy Brandt, the Fairy Tale Killer’s last victim

The Alaska Hut

Marc Kimball, owner

Emmy Vincenzo, assistant/secretary

Justin and Magda Crowley, property manager

and housekeeper

Celtic American Cruise Lines—the Ship’s Entertainers

Clara Avery, actress and singer in the Fate’s original

Broadway-style musical, Annabelle Lee

Ralph Martini, older actor

Simon Green, chorus member

Larry Hepburn, young heartthrob actor

Connie Shaw, actress

The Crew of Gotcha and Vacation USA

(reality TV shows)

Natalie Fontaine, producer

Amelia Carson, TV hostess

Tommy Marchant, cameraman

Becca Marle, sound technician

Nate Mahoney, fabricator

Misty Blaine, production assistant to Natalie Fontaine

Other Characters

Astrid and Colin, Thor’s sister and brother-in-law

Natasha and Boris, Thor’s huskies

Deadly Fate

Heather Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In loving memory of

my sister

Victoria Graham Davant,

who loved the wonder

and beauty of the

Great State of Alaska

Contents

Back Cover Text

Praise

Cast of Characters

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

1

She lay in beauty.

Heartbreaking beauty, for she was gone.

There was no hope of resuscitation; she was as pale as the snow-white sheets upon which she rested. Her hair was sable brown, the color of soft fur. Her lips had been highlighted with a rich shade of red, and her features were as delicate and lovely as the intricate pattern of a snowflake.

She’d been a victim of the “Fairy Tale Killer,” a man Thor Erikson had been pursuing with his partner, Jackson Crow, for months. The killer had struck in cities from New York City to San Diego, and it was in Los Angeles where they’d caught him at last. He’d been kneeling over, bending down, tenderly touching a corpse—only to turn with a Smith & Wesson pointed directly at Thor and Crow.

Thor had fired first, and then rushed to the pallet upon which the killer had displayed his “Snow White,” knowing full well that they were too late; she was gone, drained of her life’s blood.

Thor could still see her in his mind’s eye, remember when she’d arranged a meeting with him and Crow; he could hear her sincerity as she had expressed concern about a coworker who had been dating a business executive, a man who traveled constantly. Her name had been Mandy Brandt, and she’d been so very worried about her friend, who worked at the tour center with her. He remembered the gentleness of her smile, her eagerness to help in any way...

And now here she lay, a beauty like Snow White. But no kiss would awaken her.

He turned to Jackson, who was kicking the gun from the killer’s grip, checking to see if he was dead; he was not. He was still breathing.

“Saved my life—and his,” Jackson said.

Thor was vaguely aware of Jackson getting on his phone, calling for medical assistance and backup.

Then the whole scene began to fog up and fade.

It was a dream that came to him again and again; a memory that played itself out in his mind when he was sleeping, when he was vulnerable. Over time it had come less and less, but sometimes, like now, it would return like the blade of a knife, digging into his mind as if piercing his flesh.

Tonight, however, Mandy’s eyes opened. And she looked at him with that beautiful and tremulous smile of hers. “Thor,” she said.

“Mandy!”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “You mustn’t let it happen again,” she told him softly.

He was dreaming; he knew that he was dreaming. He’d relived the scene a thousand times over.

And he’d wondered every time how he and Jackson and a slew of techs had managed to be just that little bit too far behind the killer...

No, he blamed it on himself. And maybe Jackson, just a little. Mostly it was his own fault. He should have known. They should have known. They shared a strange sense of...intuition, and they should have realized from the descriptions they’d received, from their gut sense of the past and time and purpose and...

Mandy had died anyway.

In his dream, he said, “Every day, Mandy, every day of my life, I still try to catch the killers, the bad guys, the sick, the evil... I am so sorry...”

She pressed a finger to his lips and sat up, then said softly, “No fault, Thor, no fault on your part. You two...you believed me, you investigated, you discovered the truth. No fault. But it’s happening again. This time, Thor...this time, you must stop him.”

She stroked his cheek; her eyes were immense on his...

And then his alarm went off with a jarring sense of reality and he woke up, bolting to a sitting position, reaching for the offending noise box to silence it.

He lay there for a moment; the dream had been so real he felt as if he could still smell the scent of Mandy’s perfume on the air.

But, of course, he could not. He glanced at the other side of the bed. It was empty. As always. He and Janet had split up months ago and since then, he’d never brought anyone home.

He rose and headed to the kitchen of his Anchorage apartment, poured a cup of coffee from the brewer that was set for 6:30 a.m. every morning and walked out to the living room. Large windows all across the far wall gave him great views of the city.

People had a tendency to think of Alaska as the frozen frontier.

Sometimes, he wished it was nothing but a frontier filled with ice.

But Anchorage was a large, sprawling metropolis—perhaps not on the same level as NYC or Chicago, but it was still a thriving city with well over three hundred thousand residents, almost half the population of the entire state. The great thing about the apartment was it offered him a place to stay in the city—and have this incredible and majestic view of the white-tipped Chugach Mountains rising in the distance—without having to live here full-time.

Thanks to his enterprising antecedents, his family owned a sprawl of property between Anchorage and Seward, a vast tangle of family homes, a horse farm and a sled dog–breeding facility. His sister and her husband managed the estate, so he could live in both worlds—he even had a pair of the best dogs anyone could ask for.

He was, he knew, a damned lucky man.

Albeit a haunted one, because he could never shake certain images...

Lucky, he told himself firmly. Every man out there, every woman, too, lived with things that tore at them.

He shook off the feelings the dream had wrapped around him.

In his free time, he could head out to what was still pristine wilderness. He could spend countless hours in the national parks and encounter wildlife like he could in few other places.

He wasn’t a hunter. The only way he shot things in his spare time was with a camera. His day-to-day life had enough to do with violence.

He heard his cell phone ringing and headed back into the bedroom to snatch it up off his bedside table. His partner, Mike Aklaq, was on the other line.

“You ready, friend?”

“If you call standing in my shorts, drinking coffee and looking out windows ready, then I’m ready.”

“Cool. You’re always Mr. Early. Today I’m on the move. Coming to get you—got a call to rush it this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Just hop in the shower quick. We’re wanted down the road in Seward.”

“What’s going on?”

“Quit talking and shower. Put on something more than your briefs—Special Director Enfield will meet us at the airport.”

“Airport? Seward isn’t even a three-hour drive and only private—”

“Helicopter is waiting for us. I’m almost there. Hey, I’m pretty sure I’m along for the ride on this. Enfield thinks you’re the man for this situation.”

“What the hell is the situation?”

“I don’t even know yet. Just get cracking, eh?”

Thor didn’t say anything more; he hung up and hurried to get ready.

He managed a shave and shower in less than ten minutes. When he emerged—in his blue suit, Glock in the little leather holster at the back of his waistband—Mike was in his apartment.

“Hell, you must have been downstairs when you called,” Thor said.

Mike grinned. “I was. I figured you had coffee—you always have coffee.”

Mike was a big guy with broad shoulders and cheekbones to match. His dad was Native American; his mom had come up to Alaska with her father when he’d worked the pipeline. Mike was one of ten kids, all of them tall and good-looking. Thor and he made a good, colorful team, Thor often thought. He actually had Aleut blood himself. It was from a great-grandmother, while the rest of his family had hailed from Norway and it showed. He was bronzed just because he loved the sun; his hair was lighter than flax and his eyes were a blue only a little darker than ice.

They’d been partners three years in Alaska. Thor had done time in both the New York City and Miami offices while Mike had worked in Chicago and DC. Both of them had asked for the Alaska assignment—a different kind of job, for the most part. They were members of the criminal task division; in the three years they’d been working, most of their cases had been a matter of doggedly following clues and collaborating with Canadian and other US agents.

They headed downstairs. Thor knew that Mike was going to drive—he had the official car and the keys. They both preferred their own driving.

“What time did Enfield call you?” Thor asked when they were on the road.

“Six. He just said shake a leg and get to the airfield, and he’d meet us there. Man, it doesn’t bode well, him calling like that—when we were due in anyway.”

Thor nodded, feeling uncomfortable. The reality of the dream had faded—in his field, nightmares occurred in the darkness and the light. He’d always known that you had to live with the losses as well as the triumphs. But his dad—who was still with the Alaska State Troopers—had once put it into perspective for him by noting, You’ll never stop the flow of evil that some men will do, but each time you save one innocent, you make it all worthwhile.

So he had dreams.

Nightmares.

He woke up and shook them off.

But now, the dream that had plagued him right before he had awakened that morning seemed like some kind of a foreboding.

That feeling increased when they reached the airfield and saw Special Director Reginald Enfield there, waiting for them.

Enfield was a solid, no-nonsense director—a good man in his office. He’d had a kneecap shot out and knew he wasn’t fit for fieldwork, but he could analyze a situation like few other men and collect invaluable information with his group of techs. That he was at the airfield meant they were onto something serious.

Enfield shook hands with the men as he reached them, his expression grim. “Your chopper is ready and waiting. You’re heading straight to Seward—there was a murder last night,” he told them.

Thor waited for him to continue. It wasn’t as if Alaska was immune to murder—far from it. According to reports by statisticians at the Bureau, Alaska was the most dangerous state for violent crime. Most of the time, murders were related to bar fights, cabin fever, drug or alcohol abuse and sometimes, domestic battles.

Thor had a feeling none of the above applied; if so, the local police or the state police would have been called in. Seward, Alaska, had a full-time population of three thousand plus, but tourism and the cruise industry could swell that number considerably. It was still a quaint and beautiful town—one usually loved by those who flocked to see the beauty of the nation’s largest, last-frontier state.

He realized they were going to have to ask questions and so he began with the obvious. “Sir, I’m sure you plan on giving us more. We’re being sent to Seward over a murder? Aren’t the local police and the state guys on it?”

“This one isn’t your typical murder,” Enfield said. “We’ve got agents headed here now from the DC area—it’s that much not your typical murder.”

“We have a serial killer on our hands?” Mike asked.

“Let’s pray that we don’t,” Enfield said. He glanced at Thor. “An old partner and friend of yours is on the way here. You remember Jackson Crow?”

Thor was pretty sure that his heart missed an entire beat.

He hadn’t thought about Jackson Crow in a long time, and had only seen him in his dreams.

“Sure, I remember Crow,” Thor said, hoping he sounded easy and casual. “Great agent. We worked together a decade ago.”

Enfield hesitated. “We don’t know yet if there’s any relation here or not, but...” He paused and then shrugged. “You remember, of course, the Fairy Tale Killer? Tate Morley?”

Now Thor felt as if his heart had fallen into the pit of his stomach.

“Of course I remember,” he said huskily.

“Well, he’s out.”

“He’s out?” Thor said, incredulous.

“Yeah. He escaped.”

Thor felt a surge of anger. He’d been afraid of something like this—he’d said so when he heard that Morley had been transferred for his good behavior. Morley had been incarcerated first in the Feds’ one supermax-security prison, but had then been transferred to max security and then a minimum-security prison—all over the last ten years or so.

Thor could never understand how the justice system allowed for such a thing to happen; the man’s ninety-nine-years-plus life sentence hadn’t been lessened by a parole board, and if he’d been left where he’d first been placed, escape would have been near impossible.

Enfield continued, “Seems he made himself a shank, got himself into the infirmary, stabbed a doctor and walked out easily in his white coat and with his credentials.”

“When did this happen?” Thor asked.

He was pretty sure that he was speaking normally, that he moved like a sane man. But in truth, he was going insane inside, his gut clenching and his body on fire.

“He busted out yesterday,” Enfield said. “He hasn’t had a lot of time to get here, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. Victim’s name is Natalie Fontaine. She was a producer for bad TV—bad being my opinion, of course—filming in the area. Well, Gotcha is very, very bad. Vacation USA is okay. Anyway, I knew about Morley’s case—everyone knew about him. I’m not sure he’s the one responsible here. But Jackson Crow will be coming in along with a few of his people, and you and Mike will be taking the lead with him. He seems like an all right guy, willing to listen to the local power. Says that he doesn’t know Alaska. You two do.” Enfield stared at them and added, “He must be something with the main powers that be—the calls I received came straight from the top.”

Thor was somewhat surprised that his old friend had the power to demand in on a case—and bring affiliates with him. But then, he’d heard about the “special” unit that Jackson headed beneath an enigmatic non-field agent named Adam Harrison. Very special. They even had their own offices.

Guys talked about it being the ghost-whispering-busting unit.

But jokes didn’t last long. His old partner’s team had solved too many cases to be considered a joke.

“You okay, Erikson?” Enfield asked.

Was he okay?

Hell, no. The Fairy Tale Killer was out. There was a murder in Seward that seemed to call for help cross-country.

He’d dreamed about Mandy and Jackson Crow.

Mandy was dead.

Jackson Crow was on the way.

Thor felt his sense of dread take hold again.

The Fairy Tale Killer might be back—in Alaska.

“Sir,” he asked Enfield, “why would anyone believe that the murder in Seward might have been committed by the Fairy Tale Killer? Was the victim laid out to look like a princess—like Morley’s victims?”

“No,” Enfield said. “Like I said, we’re not sure it’s the same man—the display of the victim was completely different. But the Fairy Tale Killer is out there somewhere. I have all the information in your folders in the chopper. You can read on your way. Just trust me—the Fairy Tale Killer may not be at work up here, but this isn’t your usual murder, not in any way, shape or form. God help you—you’d better catch this monster fast.”

* * *

Clara Avery came to an abrupt halt.

She’d been running, running, running through the snow, well aware that her very life depended on reaching the Alaska Hut before...

Before the killer caught up with her.

Her breath sounded like an orchestra to her own ears; her lungs burned as if they were ablaze with an inner wildfire.

Even as she came to a dead stop, she felt the thunder of her heart.

It was the blood, the blood spattered over the snow, that brought her to the abrupt halt.

There was nothing like it, nothing like the color of blood on the snow on a sunlit day. It was a riveting hue, brilliant and vivid against the golden rays shooting down from the royal blue sky. It was spattered in a clump and led...just over the next rise.

She’d thought he was behind her.

The killer.

But...

She couldn’t just stand there in indecision.

But she didn’t know what the hell to do. Was the killer behind her? Or had he somehow managed to move ahead?

No, that couldn’t be the case. She knew that he had seen her at the Mansion, knew that he’d still been in there, knew that he had heard her leave...

And was in pursuit.

There was only one way to go—forward. Yet she dreaded every step because now...

Now she followed a tiny trickle of blood over the next rise of snow.

Stopping had been a mistake; her body seemed to scream now at movement, even though she wasn’t running. She was walking slowly and carefully over the rise...

And then she saw her.

Dead in the snow.

Amelia Carson, her raven-black hair as startling as the color of the blood against the sea of white around her. She was faceup, arms stretched out as if she were embracing the sun or making a snow angel beneath it.

With her arms only. She was in two pieces, cut in half at the waist.

Her lower body and limbs lay just a few feet away, a pool of blood separating them.

She had met Amelia Carson—celebrity hostess of many a short-lived TV show—only once. But she had met her. She knew her. And here she was...

Who else was dead?

She didn’t even know! She’d seen the carnage at the Mansion and heard the movement upstairs and then the footsteps on the steps...

Clara stood still, her breath caught in her chest. She needed to think, but it seemed that her mind was as numb as her limbs. This scene had been displayed to strike fear and terror, to paralyze...

And it worked.

It was as if she was frozen.

* * *

Not your usual murder.

Though what was usual about murder?

And did it matter to Natalie Fontaine now that she had been victimized whether her death had been usual?

Natalie hadn’t been killed for her money or possessions; she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. It didn’t seem that the act had been carried out in a fit of passion—though a great deal of thought and strength had gone into the execution of the deed.

Thor could still close his eyes and picture the room in the hotel, just as they had seen it, the body curled on the bed in what appeared to be a sleeping position. According to the medical examiner, the killer had strangled his victim before laying her out as he had, as if she were curled up...

Except her head was missing. It had been left on the dresser for all to see the minute the door was opened.

It was the head that had immediately assured the hotel staff that foul play had occurred.

The scene had been arranged like a tableau. It haunted Thor, and he knew he had viewed such a scene before...

In a picture? In an old crime scene photo?

Memory eluded him, so he’d made notes of all the facts.

Joe Mason of hotel security had come up because some neighboring guests had dialed the desk about a disturbance.

Mason had dutifully gone to the room, called out, tapped and banged for entry, and then, receiving no response, opened the door at 5:35 a.m.

The FBI offices in Anchorage and across the country had been alerted soon after.

The crime scene had filled with members of different law enforcement agencies and forensic experts. Most of their information had been gleaned slowly and painstakingly from Misty Blaine, Natalie’s production assistant, who had just been getting dressed for the day in her room on the first floor. As experts learned more and more, they began to fear for others.

Law enforcement had to get out to Black Bear Island and find the people Natalie Fontaine had been scheduled to work with that morning.

A surprise had been planned for that day—not the horrifying one that had befallen her after all, but something gruesomely similar.

All in the name of reality TV.

And so Thor and Mike were now in a coast guard vessel, headed out to Black Bear Island.

“Ironic,” Mike murmured.

Yes, it was. Misty Blaine had told them about the scene that was to be staged later that day. The cast of the Celtic American Cruise Line’s Saturday-night performance on the Fate ship had been told that a film company would be interviewing them for their show Vacation USA. Unbeknownst to them, the cast was actually going to be featured on the show Gotcha, a knockoff of Candid Camera and Punk’d. Yes. Ironic.

The scenery that they encountered on their way was, in Thor’s opinion, some of the most beautiful and spectacular to be viewed anywhere on earth. Crystal-blue waters, peaks of white ice rising, a sky clear and majestic.

And Black Bear Island before them.

The main problem with the island was that not even the newest, “smartest” smartphone worked out there.

Natalie Fontaine should have arrived that morning. Ready to greet her first interviewee for the day.

Four members of Natalie’s film crew were also supposed to be out on the island already—cameraman Tommy Marchant, sound technician Becca Marle, hostess Amelia Carson and fabricator Nate Mahoney. Joining them should have been four members of the cast and crew of Celtic American Cruise Line’s Broadway-style Saturday-night show.

Also expected were the island’s caretaker, Justin Crowley, along with the property manager, or glorified housekeeper—his wife, Magda.

The film crew was not answering the radio. Neither were Mr. or Mrs. Crowley.

Thor chafed inwardly, dreading what they might find, anxious to get there.

He’d been chafing all day, he knew.

The dream; the nightmare.

And now Jackson was coming, as well.

He tried to breathe. Usually, being on the water was like receiving some kind of a cleansing balm on the heart and soul. Nowhere else in the world was the air so crisp and clean.

The wind was in his hair, the sun on his face, as the ferry approached the rugged terrain of the island. There were no roads here that allowed for cars—the ferry gave transport to snowmobiles and dogsleds, the only conveyances that could bring supplies to the island.

Pity that it was privately held; it should have been part of the national park system—a little piece of crystal heaven for the world to enjoy. It was elevated to such a height that even in summer, when the average mean temperature of Seward hovered around sixty degrees, there was often snow on the ground. Snow also covered the many peaks that rose in haphazard beauty here and there, dotted with crystal lakes, birds and animals finding refuge among them.

The island wasn’t owned by the government or the public; it was the property of an absentee landowner, Marc Kimball, oil baron and Wall Street phenomenon. Enfield had assured Thor that Kimball had been advised via his assistant—a very soft-spoken woman named Emmy Vincenzo, who Enfield hoped had truly comprehended the severity of his message—that Natalie Fontaine had been murdered and police and FBI would be headed to the island in her stead. Kimball had rented the island and its properties out to Natalie Fontaine and her Wickedly Weird Productions, and was expecting their film crew this morning.

Thor had read the folder that had been left for him on the chopper to Seward—and listened to Misty Blaine’s panicky and barely coherent explanation of the day of filming that had been planned. None of it was good; all of it added ridiculousness to what was already bizarre, gruesome and horrible.

As far as the film company, Wickedly Weird Productions, went...

To be fair, Thor conceded, some of their reality TV was interesting. They did shows that dealt with roadside diners, special tours that no one should miss and unusual cities or areas in the United States. He had a feeling that the real powers that be at the film studios loved history and travel—but they also needed to make money.

That meant that some of their shows were, at best, juvenile.

Those were the programs that were mostly popular with a young crowd—the kind of viewers who found fart jokes hilarious and also seemed to enjoy the distress or humiliation of those caught in the wheels of their “Gotcha!” factory.

Wickedly Weird Productions had rented two of the main properties on Black Bear Island. They included the Mansion, a sumptuous house that had begun its existence as a log cabin only to become something of a modern-day castle, and the Alaska Hut, a “rustic” lodge with eight or nine bedrooms, a huge living room, kitchen, dining room and expansive porches.

The crew was supposedly filming a piece on the Celtic American Cruise Line’s entertainment venues—that’s what the cast members from the ship believed, and what they thought they were signing release forms for. However, the real plan for the day had been to film a segment for their show Gotcha.

Other agents and the Alaska State Troopers were still busy going through procedure in Seward; dealing with the crime scene units, possible witnesses, hotel staff and more. But Thor and Mike and three officers were on this trail—hoping to find that Natalie’s crew and the cast of the Fate were patiently waiting for their leader or already in the midst of filming.

In short, that they were all alive and well.

And it might be very difficult to figure that out.

Because, according to Misty Blaine, they were going to find a scene of carnage—blood and destruction—whether it was real or not.

Misty had supplied them with the file folder on the day’s intended shoot. Wickedly Weird Productions had filled the Mansion and the Alaska Hut with bloody mock-murder scenes. Scenes meant to terrify the Fate cast. Of course, before anyone succumbed to their terror—the film crew would jump out and scream, “Gotcha!”

“Almost there,” Thor heard. He turned around. Lieutenant Bill Meyer, with the Alaska State Troopers, approached them.

“We’ve got a storage shed near the docks,” Bill told them. “We don’t have any permanent force here—a good majority of the year, no one is out here at all. But the owner paid for the snowmobiles we keep. There’s been trouble before, of course. One rush to the hospital. Wild party and a man wound up outside naked and nearly froze to death. Other than that...let’s see, alcohol poisoning, a fight, one time a break-in...mostly, people behaving badly. Not lethally.”

“Thanks,” Thor said. He liked the cops he and Mike were working with—then again, he liked cops in general. His father had taught him from a young age that most were decent and hardworking and doing their best. Only a few were assholes—which he assumed was true in any vocation. Bill Meyer was a good guy, he knew. They’d worked together before. Bill had been assigned to Anchorage for a year and he’d spent many of his off-hours finding the down-and-outers and trying to get them help.

The Coast Guard cutter arrived at the one long dock the island offered. Captain Filmore handed out walkie-talkies to Thor, Mike, and Bill Meyer and his men, instructing them to keep close contact.

“There’s no telling what you’ll encounter, but...”

“We’re not going to be meeting an army,” Mike said.

“But, a strong man with some lethal weapons,” Thor said. “Perhaps meeting up with a number of accomplices? Thing is, to escape the hotel security, it had to be someone who appeared to be part of the hotel staff. You didn’t have just anyone doing that. You had someone with an extremely sharp weapon—and the strength to make that weapon cut through flesh and bone.”

Someone who might not even be on the island—who might be chopping off more heads back in Seward.

Then again...

They might find a slew of dead right here. Oh, wait. They definitely would; he just hoped the dead were all mannequins and stage props.

“Yeah. Anyway, watch your backs,” the captain said.

“Will do,” Meyer murmured. Thor and the others nodded.

Ten minutes later, they were on the snowmobiles, headed to the Mansion. And then another ten minutes, riding through the snow that almost continually covered the island, brought them to their destination—and a scene of utter chaos.

Bodies strewn here and there, blood sprayed everywhere.

Thor hunkered down by the first body.

He looked up at Mike. “Mannequin,” he said.

Bill Meyer had hurried on to another. “Fake blood,” he called.

Thor moved through the downstairs, stopping at each body—it was all part of the staged scene that the assistant producer had told them about.

“Someone thought that this would be funny?” Mike asked with disgust.

“Apparently,” Thor said, rising after his inspection of the last “corpse.”

“They just had to come to Alaska,” Bill Meyer muttered.

“Thing is,” Thor said, “where is the film crew? And where is the cast?”

“Alaska Hut—or here, somewhere, in all this. I’ll take the upstairs,” Mike said. “We may find real bodies yet. Fellows? A hand?” he asked the state police officers.

They nodded and started to follow him up the stairs to the many rooms above. “Man, this is sick!” one of them muttered.

“I’m on the exterior,” Thor said.

Near the top landing, Mike nodded.

Thor headed out. There were no snowmobile tracks leaving the Mansion, but there had been precipitation in the last few hours, so a path might have easily been covered.

He kept looking. And that was when he found the trail of footsteps.

And he began to follow it.

* * *

The Alaska Hut, the Alaska Hut... Help would be there, all she had to do was reach it...

It might be summer, but the snow was still thick on the ground on the rise. She was slogging through it, sinking and falling and trying to right herself. She staggered and fell—thinking of the times she had mocked horror movies, those that featured victims who seemed to trip over their own feet.

And then, over another rise, she saw it. The Alaska Hut.

Help! Help would be there.

Producer, director, fellow actors, makeup artists, costumers and...security! All she had to do was reach it.

But...was anyone left alive? She hadn’t waited long enough at the Mansion to find out, not after she’d seen what she’d seen and heard movement upstairs and then...

Coming down the steps.

She’d run.

She should have stayed to help Larry.

No, how could she have helped him—against all that carnage? She didn’t even have a plastic butter knife on her!

She could see it...the Alaska Hut...just ahead.

Hope allowed her to redouble her efforts. She heard the sound of her breath, and the squish of her footsteps as she ran the best she could over the snow. Her legs burned, her lungs were now pure fire.

Suddenly, a voice called out to her. She nearly lost her footing in the snow as panic swept through her anew.

“Stop! Stop now!”

Stop? What insanity was that?

She ran all the harder!

She didn’t hear footsteps following so close behind her—she didn’t hear or feel anything at first, just that pounding of her heart, the ragged and desperate rise and fall of her breath...

And then, it felt as if she was hit from behind by a semi.

She went down, flying, her face smashing into the coldness of the snow, a mouthful of the stuff nearly choking her. There was someone on top of her...or trying to drag her up.

And all she could picture was the blood spattered over the snow-white landscape, the woman cut in half...pieces connected by a pool of blood.

And so she fought. She fought with every remaining ounce of energy within her; she fought for her life.

2

Thor 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.”

3

A deeper chill settled over Clara. That was it—of course. They were all suspects.

No, no, no. These men couldn’t possibly believe that she—or Ralph, Simon or Larry!—could have had anything to do with these horrendous murders.

Jackson would quickly set him straight on that!

But what about the film crew? She couldn’t believe they had anything to do with the murders. They’d all been too shocked, stunned and horrified when they’d been told that it was not a prank any longer, that people were dead.

But it was an island. And the only people here were her cast mates and the crew working for the film company.

And, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Crowley. The caretakers for the estate.

Had they been interviewed? Clara hadn’t even seen them yet, though she knew that Larry had gone to find them and that they had been at the Alaska Hut.

But, no. Impossible. She’d met the couple. They were in their late sixties or early seventies. Mrs. Crowley was an attractive, slim, gray-haired woman who was, admittedly, a little odd. She was coldly—but perfectly—courteous while making sure people, even Natalie Fontaine, understood that even though she was there to oversee and facilitate, they needed to help themselves and be self-sufficient if they needed something.

Mr. Crowley matched his wife; he was still fit as a fiddle.

And strong.

Strong enough to wield whatever weapon it took to cut a woman in half?

No, Mr. Crowley was a little weird, but to her, at least, he had been as nice and cheerful as a department-store Santa.

She shook her head and let out a long breath.

Maybe she could be helpful—state some simple facts.

“It is an island, Agent. It’s also heavily forested and has a ragged coastline with caves beneath ice and snow. It has little peaks and valleys. I believe there are survival caches left in various places around the island. Someone could be hiding out in the trees. Someone in a small boat could make it from the mainland in about fifteen minutes—that’s about how long it took to get here when the captain the company hired brought me out. He left me at the dock, but there are a lot of shallows and little beachy areas around the southern and western sides. A person—or persons—could easily come and go from a zillion little hidden coves.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “Someone could be hiding. But we have had the state police out looking and they’ll continue to look. The thing is...”

He paused and glanced toward Jackson.

“The thing is it might well be someone sitting among you like your best friend,” Jackson Crow told her. “So, be careful.”

“Exactly,” Thor Erikson said quickly.

“Jackson,” she said, “you know Ralph, Simon and Larry!”

“Yes.”

“I trust them with my life!” she said.

“Thank you for your help, Miss Avery,” Erikson told her. His ice-colored eyes fell on her and she realized that his tone had been somewhat gruff. Maybe, despite his calling in life, he’d been just as thrown as she by the girl they’d found dead in the snow. “Send Simon Green in, if you will.”

“Certainly.”

She turned to leave the room, but paused, looking at Jackson. She impulsively hugged him again and said, “Jackson, thank God you’re here!”

And thankfully, he hugged her back.

“We’ll catch this man, too, Clara, or die trying,” he promised her softly.

She gave him a nod and a weak smile.

She didn’t look back at Agent Viking, but left the room, ready to tell Simon that he was next in line.

* * *

Down to the last. Thor, with Jackson now in the room with him, just had two more interviews to go.

He was grateful for Mike—an amazing partner with whom he worked really well.

But he was even more grateful that Jackson Crow had arrived. Thor couldn’t help his feelings and his hunches, and he couldn’t help but believe that these murders were somehow personal.

And had to do with him and Jackson—and the Fairy Tale Killer.

The day had been ungodly long. While he and Jackson continued to speak with the others, Mike worked with the state police.

No one knew why the phones were down. The techs believed a phone line had been cut somewhere, but it would take a very long time to find out how and where. Of course, phones and electricity went out on the island often enough without help from a criminal mind.

The radios had just been gone. Taken. How or when, no one knew.

The television worked via satellite, but the internet system on the island had been through the phone company and was thus down, as well.

The island had been, for all intents and purposes, cut off.

Thor was good at reading people. At seeing ticks and nuances, the fall of someone’s lids over their eyes, the way they sat—many little things that gave away a liar.

But it seemed—so far—that everyone was telling the truth. Becca Marle, a woman in her early thirties, was athletic and he had the feeling she was usually competent and capable of handling her mic and sound system on her own. She had short dark hair and a muscular, almost square shape, which made him, naturally, wonder about her strength. But, she was still stunned when they spoke; she broke into tears every few seconds, as well.

Tommy Marchant was the oldest in the group, maybe forty-five or fifty, tall with a slightly protruding middle, graying hair and a sun-wrinkled face.

He’d spent most of the interview shaking his head. “Natalie. I’ve worked with her—on one project or another—for nearly twenty years,” he’d repeat now and then. He’d wince, and shake his head again. “Can’t believe it—can’t believe it.”

Nate Mahoney had been the most interesting of the film crew in his initial interview. He couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the fact that the deaths had been real. He talked about being a fabricator. He could make almost anything appear to be something else. “But, these days...well, there are unions and all, but I hang around to fix fabrications, of course, but also to deal with props and help out. Film...and TV! So fickle these days. The blood and guts were all my inventions. Great, huh. Oh, God, how terrible now. The fake has become the real. I mean, I’m good at what I do, but...wow. I don’t know much about self-defense. I’m scared. Should we be scared?”

Thor had told him that he needed to be vigilant, alert and wary—and, of course, to report anything at all to him or Mike immediately.

He thought about Becca Marle again. She had spent most of the interview crying. She was so distraught she hadn’t even thought to be afraid for herself, but, he imagined, soon enough, she would. Of the seven main members of the Wickedly Weird Productions team, she and Misty Blaine were the two surviving women.

The Annabelle Lee cast had been talkative—maybe because they all knew Jackson Crow already. Jackson’s appearance was a good thing. While Thor felt that talking with Clara Avery had been somewhat of a challenge, it had been easy, thanks to Jackson, to gain trust and a comfortable rapport with the three men.

Now...

Mr. and Mrs. Crowley.

“Their name just had to be Crowley,” Mike murmured, bringing the pair in. Neither Jackson nor Thor responded and Mike added, “Crowley. You know—like Aleister Crowley. The satanist.”

“Yeah, we know about Aleister Crowley,” Thor told him, managing a grim smile. “But, hey, it’s still a pretty common last name.”

“Just don’t think we needed it here!” Mike said. He hesitated and added, “And they’re weird! Remind me of that painting—American Gothic, I think it’s called. Or those movies you see where the old folks are raising a tribe of cannibals who feed off travelers.”

“Mike, there aren’t that many travelers out here—a family of cannibals would starve pretty quickly,” Thor told him.

“They’re still weird!” Mike said.

He’d been to the toolshed and around the Alaska Hut with the couple while Thor had interviewed the others.

Although the police and forensic crews had been scouring the island, the how of the crime here remained a mystery. No weapon could be found; no hiding place. Of course, with not much blood at the site of the body, Thor hadn’t needed the medical examiner to tell him that Amelia Carson had been killed elsewhere, and brought to be left in the snow for discovery. But how had the killer gotten her there—and gotten away—without being seen?

Unless he was among those in the house.

Ralph Martini, Larry Hepburn and Simon Green vouched for one another; they had come to the island together.

Thor had found Clara Avery running through the snow himself.

That left the film crew—unless the three actors had gone crazy and started chopping people up together, a scenario that seemed unlikely.

And then there were... Mr. and Mrs. Crowley.

According to Ralph, Larry and Simon, the first people they had seen were the film crew, when they had—screaming bloody murder over what they had discovered at the Mansion—run into the Alaska Hut. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Crowley had been in on what was going on.

Of course. The film crew had signed saying that they would make sure every last piece of fake blood was cleaned up, every bit of fabrication was taken away and the Mansion was left as it had been.

But the members of the film crew had arrived at the Alaska Hut at different times. And no one had seen Mr. or Mrs. Crowley until they’d been there at least twenty minutes or so.

Now Mrs. Magda Crowley sat across from him. She looked stiff and dignified, wiry and fit in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and still—as Mike had commented—somewhat reminiscent of American Gothic.

“Mrs. Crowley, you’re aware of the dead woman found in the snow, of course.”

“Of course,” she said humorlessly. “My husband and I are older—we’re not deaf or stupid.”

Touché.

“Where have you been all morning? You’re not deaf or stupid so you must know that since you live here, you definitely fall into the suspect range,” Thor said flatly.

Jackson cleared his throat.

But Magda Crowley seemed to like his tone.

“Working, Agent Erikson. Preparing meals. Justin and I live up at the main house, but we came out here early—about five forty-five this morning. We were to leave the house—my pleasure, with the way those film people rigged it up yesterday!—so that it was prepared for the people to come in and see all that fake blood and gory stuff. Justin and I have been in this house since that early hour. We made sure this place was fitting for more filming, for meals. We freshened the bedrooms, we cleaned and prepared. Period. That’s it. Those film people showed up one by one, and then they laughed their asses off waiting for those actor boys to come screaming through the snow. Got to admit, they were kind of anxious when Miss Fontaine and the hostess didn’t come over with the boys. After they all laughed at scaring the actors so badly, they started to argue about whether or not to head over to the Mansion, but someone said something about waiting for Clara to show up and that’s where everything was when I started to hear the commotion going on. You’d showed up with that Clara girl and that was the first I knew that anything whatsoever had gone wrong.”

“You and Mr. Crowley were together all the time?” Jackson asked.

“What? Joined at the hip? No. I was making biscuits. He was making beds,” Magda Crowley said, looking from Jackson to Thor. “Good cop, bad cop?” she asked.

“We’re not cops,” Jackson said.

“That’s right...you’re federal men. Well, you know, this is Alaska,” she said.

“I do. I’m from Alaska, Mrs. Crowley,” Thor told her.

“You ought to be out there finding out what happened to that poor woman, not in here, hammering at hardworking folks!” Magda told him. She wagged a finger at Thor. “I could see something like this coming. I could. All this reality! People sitting in front of the boob tube watching other people behave badly. It’s horrible—just horrible. I’m darned sorry that people were killed, but am I surprised? Hell, no! It was a matter of time.”

“You didn’t see or hear anything unusual?” Thor asked.

“What the hell would you call unusual? If I’d walked by that poor girl I’d have just kept on going—you saw what they did to the Mansion, right?”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Crowley. If you think of anything...if you see anything suspicious or can help us in any way—”

“It will help a hell of a lot if everyone just gets off the island!” she said. She stood up and started out. “I guess you want my husband now?”

“We do,” Thor said.

She sniffed and left. Mike poked his head back in. “She’s something, huh?” he whispered. “I’ll get the husband. They should both be watched—hell, who knows this island better than those two?” Mike stepped out.

Thor looked at Jackson. Jackson was grinning. “Cranky.”

“Cranky, yes. She doesn’t look much like a conspirator in any kind of demonic cult,” Thor said.

“And we both know looks can be deceiving,” Jackson reminded him.

Justin Crowley walked in then.

It was, Thor knew, a mistake to go by looks or any preconceived notion. The man, however, seemed like the most likely suspect. He was like a weathered rock—strong against whatever might come. He also had a hard, rather sour expression—he might have a heck of a lot more bulk than the farmer pictured in the painting American Gothic, but he looked just as grim.

“You couldn’t just talk to me and the wife at the same time?” he asked. “And how the hell long are you going to keep all these people here? Now you got all the cops and whoever traipsing in and out all day, too—hell of a thing to get these floors picked up now and everyone wanting coffee and more.”

“Perhaps you won’t begrudge people coffee, when they’re trying to find out who killed a young woman who won’t have the opportunity to work again ever,” Jackson said.

“I don’t begrudge them coffee—they can have all the damned coffee they want. Ain’t my coffee. Film people paid for all that’s in here. They just need to start taking care of themselves a little. Where’s this, where’s that? You don’t have any of this kind or that fake sugar? This is a quiet place, most of the time. People rent it out and come and go, but there’s a time limit on it, you know?”

“No time limit on finding a murderer,” Thor said. “So, did you see anything unusual—besides the setup by the film folks,” he put in quickly. “Did you hear anything, did you see anyone else on the island anywhere?”

Justin Crowley waved a hand in the air. “It’s a private island. We know when people are due out on the ferry. Hell, just ’cause it’s Alaska, doesn’t mean we’re not like the rest of the world! Sometimes, yeah, kids like to come out here from the mainland to the ‘rich people’s island,’ and bring girls and beer or cheap wine, but they don’t stay. We got grizzly bears in the forest and they are mean—especially the momma bears when they got cubs. If kids come, they hang out in the water, hug to the coves. In winter, you can get iced in, so no one comes then. We got generators, the missus and me, because it can freeze like a mother here and the electric can go. Did I see anyone else today—no, I did not. Did I hear anything—no, I did not. I didn’t know one damned thing about the girl in the snow or the woman killed back in Seward until you all came out here today. And that’s a fact—and there’s nothing I can say or do to help you. I wasn’t looking out for anyone to be on the island. I wasn’t paying much attention. We were just getting ready for the film people, sprucing this place up. Hadn’t been rented out in a while. It wasn’t dirty, but it’s like anything else. You don’t use it, somehow you still have to clean it anyway.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Don’t you think we’d like to help you? We live here—survive here. Thinking some maniac who likes to cut people in half might be running around isn’t a good thought, not for my wife and me. We’re a little old to be hitting an overcrowded job market!”

“People don’t always realize what they might know when something first happens,” Thor said. “After a while, you might remember a sound or a moment or something out on the ice. I’m pretty sure that whoever did this had some knowledge of the island.”

“Something might come to you later,” Jackson said. “It doesn’t matter how small.”

“Sure. So, what’s happening now? You’re not leaving the wife and me out on this island alone with a killer running around?”

“No, we won’t be leaving you alone,” Jackson said. “You’ll have forensic crews going through everything at the Mansion through the night.”

“You and your wife are sleeping here?” Thor asked him.

He nodded. “We were planning to, anyway. Natalie Fontaine hadn’t been sure how it would all go. We were prepared for her crew to stay at the Alaska Hut, too.”

“Someone will be here,” Thor assured him.

Justin Crowley nodded and set his hands on his chair. “Then I guess ‘someone’ can talk to me anytime they want. You finished with me for now?”

“Yes, we are. Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” Thor said. “And you know, of course, that we have search warrants that allow us to search every inch of property here, including your personal space?”

Crowley smiled. “Feel free. We’re too old for any personal kinky stuff, so it will be kind of boring, but, hey, go for it.”

Crowley left the room. “Hm,” Jackson murmured. He looked over at Thor and grinned. “Sometimes, the older, the kinkier.”

“Please, Lord, don’t give me any mental pictures!” Thor told him. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.

“What do you think—seriously?” Jackson asked him.

“Seriously—don’t paint any mental pictures!” Thor said, and then shook his head, looking at his old partner. It had been over a decade since he and Jackson had worked together. They’d been good partners—great partners, really, even knowing what each other was thinking most of the time. They had an unspoken rule: there was no sense in doing what they were doing if it fell short of real humanity. They tended to be by the book and courteous until they couldn’t go by the book and courtesy just wasn’t in the cards anymore.

“I think that they can search this island for days and miss nooks and crannies,” he told Jackson. “I think that the film crew and the Celtic American people were taken completely by surprise. Then again, the group from the ship are actors, and the film crew are in ‘reality’ TV. As for Mr. and Mrs. Crowley—they’re either cantankerous from too much cold or just downright creepy.”

“Do you think someone else is on the island?” Jackson asked him.

Thor hesitated. “There has to be someone else—or, at the very least, a cache somewhere out here. There’s not even a speck of stage blood on anyone in this house. And yet...I still believe that one of them had to have seen something. Because, at some time, Amelia Carson was killed here or brought here. We know that. We go backward from there.” He looked at Jackson again. “I can’t help but believe that Tate Morley is here somehow. That he is out there on the island. And he’s watching us.”

* * *

They weren’t being offered any means off the island—not yet.

And it had been hours, or so it seemed. Hard to tell in Alaska in the summer—the sun never seemed to really set. Clara didn’t wear a watch, but she knew that lunch and dinner had come and gone.

State police—ready to draw their weapons at the drop of a hat!—watched over them. The crew of Wickedly Weird Productions had been brought to the entertainment room in back to wait while she, Ralph, Simon and Larry were in the parlor.

They’d all had sandwiches, provided by the police officers. They’d been offered power bars and fruit. Ralph had complained a bit about not having a proper dinner as time had gone on, but she didn’t think that he was even hungry.

It was a nice enough waiting area. The fireplace was huge and the room was done with stone and natural wood. The sofas were worn, plush leather. While the entertainment center was out in back where the TV people were gathered, there was a smaller screen in the living room.

There was no stopping the media; while neither the police nor the FBI had given out any particulars, the news that producer Natalie Fontaine and celebrity TV hostess Amelia Carson had been murdered was plastered all over the screen.

Every news channel was broadcasting the information. Reporters interviewed other guests and employees at the Nordic Lights Hotel. They spoke in serious tones.

Not one of them missed the opportunity to say that both women had now become part of the sensationalist television they had promoted during their lives. And while a man named Enfield gave a press conference along with the chief of police, neither let out the information that one woman had been beheaded and another had been cut in half.

Law enforcement was doing its best to see that the murders did not become speculative gossip.

After the third or fourth program, Larry had suggested they watch a music channel.

They had all quickly agreed.

She and her cast mates had talked for a while—a little awkwardly, since a uniformed man watched them at all times—and then they had grown silent. It wasn’t a bad silence; they were all comfortable with one another. They were not only part of an ensemble cast, they had lived aboard the Destiny in close proximity, and knew each other very well. Larry and Ralph were now partners, living together, close as could be.

And, she thought, afraid. They were all scared. Every now and then, she caught her cast mates looking at her. Though they were on edge, they were men—and the killer had targeted two women.

But even she could distance herself a little. The two women killed had been with Wickedly Weird Productions.

She was not.

Becca Marle was. Clara had heard a bit of a few of her conversations with Tommy Marchant and Nate Mahoney. They were anxious. They wanted off the island.

Becca didn’t. She felt safer here than she would elsewhere. She liked the armed policeman watching over her amid a sea of cops and the FBI men, who were in the house, as well.

Clara wished that Jackson was out there with them. But now, of course, he was with the man she thought of as Agent Viking. She hoped he was taking charge; she certainly felt more secure when he was with them.

“It’s good that Crow is here,” Ralph said.

“Definitely,” Simon agreed.

Larry grinned. “I don’t know. That Thor guy looks pretty tough to me. We’re going to be all right.” He patted Clara on the knee. “Hey, don’t go wishing you were back in NOLA. Bad things can happen anywhere. Wait—very bad things did happen out of NOLA.”

She frowned, looking at him. She couldn’t help it; she did wish she was back in New Orleans. She had been born there, grown up in the French Quarter; her parents were there, and her younger brother was getting his master’s at Tulane. Home would feel good right now. Actually, New Orleans was where she’d gotten to know Jackson Crow and his wife, Angela, and where the “Krewe of Hunters” had been formed in pursuit of a killer on a high-profile case.

And when they’d been on the Destiny...

Her friend Alexi Cromwell had been there, and the cast of Les Miz had been large—lots of friends. When they were nervous, they’d stayed together. They’d kept working.

Hell, they’d polished their nails and done all kinds of mundane things.

She reminded herself that it had really only been a matter of hours that they’d been here. Long hours, but not a full day and night.

People had died—horribly.

There’d been a few minutes when she had tried to convince herself that the whole thing was an episode of Gotcha. Natalie Fontaine would come walking in and announce cheerfully that wow! They had all been really gotten. Special Agent Thor Erikson would prove to be an actor/stripper and the whole thing would have been a farce in extremely bad taste.

She couldn’t pretend at all anymore—if she’d ever been able to convince herself of such a thing. Jackson Crow was here now. She knew this was real.

“Yeah, you know, this isn’t right,” Ralph said. “Not right, and not fair. I’m reminded of The Importance of Being Earnest, by Oscar Wilde, you know. Wonderful quotes from that story. ‘To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.’ Well! To be in one horrendous situation is certainly misfortune, but how in God’s name did we all manage two?” he demanded. “Carelessness?” he asked.

Clara, Simon and even Larry stared at him.

“Sorry, sorry, yes, no one’s fault. Still...” Ralph let his sentence end with a sigh. “I’m scared again, I guess. God! I hate being scared.”

“We’re all right, Ralph. Really. We’re all right,” Simon said. “Two things. Both of the people killed were with reality TV, not with the cruise line or the cast. And the other—both people killed were women.”

He winced, looking over at Clara.

“It’s okay, Simon. I had noted that fact already,” Clara told him drily.

“Hey!” Simon said suddenly. “Someone else is entering the fray!”

Clara had been curled on the sofa in the parlor beneath the large picture window that looked onto the porch; at Simon’s words, she sat up and looked out.

Someone was coming. A handsome man of about forty-five, medium height, with dark hair. He wore a double sweater beneath a thick parka and he was followed by a police officer and a shivering woman carrying a notepad.

The police officer with him appeared to be frazzled.

The woman looked as nervous as a cartoon rat. She was pinched thin, and wore a parka as if it were a heavy burden upon her.

The officer, the man and the pinched-rat-like woman were stopped at the door by another state policeman.

They talked for several minutes. At last, the officer in charge of guarding the front door opened it and let them in.

For a moment, the man looked around the room. Then his eyes lit on Clara. He looked confused, as if he’d seen a mannequin come to life or a ghost return from the dead. Then he smiled. “My God—it’s you!”

Clara didn’t have the least idea of what he was talking about.

“Hello?” she said politely. She stood; the others had done the same at the man’s entry.

He smiled—a great smile, she thought.

“I’ve seen you! You performed a Sandra Dee character in Grease! You were amazing. I was a little bit in love!” the man said.

“I was in Grease,” Ralph murmured.

No one paid him any heed.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry. Who are you?” Clara asked.

“Marc. Marc Kimball,” he said. “I own Black Bear Island.”

“Oh!”

The murmur seemed like a chorus line—it so perfectly seemed to come from everyone in the room at the same time.

“How do you do?”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Marc Kimball!”

The greetings seemed to sail around the room.

Clara didn’t speak. She felt uneasy.

She loved being a performer. She’d received good reviews and bad reviews. She’d been in casts when she’d been the low man on the totem pole, totally ignored by those seeking autographs. She’d had lead roles and signed and greeted people, as well. She’d been panned by critics and loved by critics and she’d been careful never to take any of it too seriously.

She’d been admired before, and that was nice. But something about the way this man looked at her made her feel queasy.

She tried to smile. He hadn’t done an evil thing to her.

“It is you, right? I wasn’t sure about all the particulars, but I heard about Annabelle Lee being done on the Fate. And, I knew, of course, that Wickedly Weird Productions was using cruise line employees for Vacation USA, and I had hoped...”

Simon sprang to her rescue.

“We’re all in the cast, sir. Ralph Martini and Larry Hepburn are the gentlemen over there. I’m Simon Green. And, yes, our leading lady is Clara Avery,” he said.

“Miss Avery!” Kimball said, walking over to her. He took her hand. She wanted to scream and wrench it away.

He kept looking at her as he spoke again. “I came as soon as I heard about what happened. They said it wasn’t necessary, but...I’m so glad I’m here.”

4

“We’ve got to make some decisions,” Mike said, joining Thor and Jackson after the initial interviews. “The groups out there are getting restless. I’ve still got the film crew separated from the caretaker couple and from the ship’s cast, but they’re all getting edgy. One of the film guys was saying he was already getting cabin fever, but his mate, Becca Marle, was saying that she didn’t want to be out of sight of a cop for the next year. Are we getting them all on a boat or holding them here for a while longer?”

“None of them is under arrest,” Jackson said. “We can’t really hold them.”

“Some of them, I think, want to be held,” Mike said. “Until we find this guy.”

They were all silent. It was a dream that a killer such as this could be caught quickly. Many serial killers had reigned for more than a decade before being caught.

Some never were.

“Do we have anything else? Anything more from the forensic crews?” Thor asked.

“Still not a damned thing,” Mike said. “Doc Andropov has taken the body—says because of the snow, he’ll try to run some tests and pin down time of death. He says that from the data he has so far, she was most likely killed early this morning, murdered and bisected elsewhere. Said it’s hard to be certain because the body was packed in snow, but Amelia Carson was with the film crew last night until about eight. I just got off the walkie-talkie—talked to Detective Brennan, head on the case via the state police—Bill Meyer patched me in from the Coast Guard cutter. This is the info I have from him. They were all staying at the Nordic Lights Hotel on the waterfront in Seward,” he said, pausing to look at Thor and reminding him, “Where we arrived at the investigation into Natalie Fontaine’s murder this morning.”

Thor nodded. “Yes, we knew that they all had rooms at the hotel—and, of course, that other than Misty and Miss Fontaine’s remains, none of them were in their rooms. Thanks to Misty, we knew what we’d find at the Mansion as well, and that a ship’s show cast were out here, too. That’s why we came to the island as quickly as possible.”

“I spoke with Brennan this morning, too,” Jackson said. “Director Enfield put us together. He’s the man who made arrangements to get me out here as quickly as possible. Seems like a really good cop—solid and quick. Enfield likes him.”

“He is a good cop. We’ve worked with him before,” Thor said.

“Anyway,” Mike continued, “Detective Brennan has been interviewing everyone he can find at the hotel. There’s a desk clerk who was on the night shift, Arnold Haskell, who says that he saw Amelia Carson up and heading out before it was really light.”

“Sunrise was just about 5:00 a.m.,” Jackson said.

Thor murmured, “That would have meant that morning twilight began at about 3:00 or 3:30 a.m.” In Alaska, summer days were long. Because of Alaska’s position near the North Pole, it was really only truly dark from about midnight until three or three thirty at this time of year. Some people couldn’t stand the continuous light in summer and the equally continuous darkness in winter. It didn’t bother Thor at all, but he knew that visitors often found themselves wide-awake far too much of the day.

“Did she leave the hotel?” he asked.

“He wasn’t sure. She stopped to demand to know why there was no coffee in the lobby yet—he told her that coffee didn’t go out in the lobby until six thirty and that there were little pots in the room. She was not nice to him.” He hesitated, looking at Jackson and Thor and grimacing. “Apparently, after speaking with other employees at the hotel, Detective Brennan came to the conclusion that while Natalie Fontaine was all right—not someone you gush over, but all right—Amelia Carson was not liked by many people. She was all smiles in front of a camera, and self-centered and entitled off camera. Brennan told me that a maid at the hotel said Amelia treated her as if she was little better than a cockroach.”

“Are there cockroaches in Alaska?” Jackson wondered aloud.

“There are cockroaches everywhere,” Mike assured him.

“In every way,” Thor murmured. “So what did Haskell say? She did or she didn’t go out?”

“Haskell didn’t know—she bitched at him and he did his best to be polite and explain hotel policy and she walked off. He didn’t wait to see if she went up the elevator or out the door—he had paperwork and he went back to it. He did say that she had been on her cell phone, bitching at someone on the other end, even while she was bitching at him about there being no coffee for an hour or so.”

“People don’t usually kill people and cut them in half just because they’re not nice people,” Thor said.

“May depend on who they’re not nice to,” Jackson said.

“True,” Thor agreed. “So, by this time frame—if everyone was right about time—it seems that Miss Fontaine was killed first in her hotel room. The killer apparently kept it down, though he was heard, which brought security up. Somehow he killed her, left that room as it was and got out of the hotel with whatever he used to sever her head, and went on to meet up with Amelia Carson, catch her, kill her, slice her in half and deposit her on the snow.”

“And no one saw him,” Jackson said.

Thor met his eyes. “I doubt that,” he said softly.

“The body was behind that snowbank or rise,” Mike said. “If Miss Avery had run about fifty feet parallel from where she was, she might not have seen it.”

That was true.

“Hey, I work with you daily, Thor, and you’re confusing me,” Mike said. “You think that there is someone on the island, and you also think that someone saw something?”

“This is all too clean—too neat,” Thor said. “And here’s another thought. What if there are two killers? One who decapitated Natalie Fontaine, and one who chopped Amelia Carson in half?”

“Two killers?” Jackson asked. “God, I sure as hell hate to think that there might be two such demented people in the area.”

“There really are a lot of people who hate reality TV,” Mike said. He was serious, Thor realized.

“You just change the channel,” Jackson said. He was looking at Thor, and he knew that they were both thinking the same thing. Tate Morley—the Fairy Tale Killer—was out. These killings had not been carried out in any way like the murders he’d committed before. But he had been locked away for over a decade. He might have changed.

Then again, Thor and Jackson might have such traumatic memories of the man’s previous victims that they were ready to pin anything on him.

Realistically, there were new sociopathic and psychotic killers cropping up constantly.

“Our director doesn’t believe that the Fairy Tale Killer, Tate Morley, could have anything to do with this,” Thor said to Jackson.

“He basically believes that the display of the bodies is too different,” Mike added.

“Well, what do you think about the people we’ve interviewed?” Jackson asked. “They all appear to be horrified, devastated and so on—except for Mr. and Mrs. Crowley, who didn’t seem to feel one way or the other about the dead. But I’ve seen cold-blooded killers pass lie-detector tests without blinking.”

“We do have a cast of actors here,” Mike pointed out.

“Three men who left their hotel together and arrived together. And Miss Avery,” Thor said.

“Maybe they were angry—someone filmed them from the bad side,” Mike suggested.

“I know that group,” Jackson told them. “I know Clara well.”

Thor swiveled around to look at his former partner. “You know her well? How well?” It wasn’t any kind of an accusation; he knew that Jackson Crow had married another agent. His old friend had never been anything other than the monogamous type. Everything about the man had always been straightforward and honorable.

“An agent I worked with in New Orleans and the Destiny is engaged to one of her best friends. I was looking out for that group of performers and working with McCoy when the Archangel was on the ship. I knew Clara and some of the old cast were coming up here to sail the Alaska seas after what had happened there.”

Thor knew about the Archangel case.

And knew that the Archangel was dead. He couldn’t help but wish that the same was true of the Fairy Tale Killer.

“So where do we go from here? Send the TV and ship’s entertainment people all home?” Mike asked.

“None of them actually has a home in Alaska. The film crew would go back to the Nordic Lights Hotel. Where has the cruise line lodged its performers and staff?” Thor asked.

“Celtic American uses the Hawthorne—about a block down from the other hotel,” Mike said. “I’m assuming that, from what we’ve seen, the killer’s focus is on the film crew and not the Celtic American people. They had to have been targeted—I think we’d all agree on that.”

“They’re scared. All scared,” Jackson said. “I’m pretty sure they’ll all do anything we ask.”

“You’re thinking about keeping them here?” Thor asked.

“One of them may be in on this somehow,” Jackson said.

“So they need to be watched,” Thor said flatly. “This TV and entertainment group could still be in danger, here on the island. So, here we are. We all know the situation, and why we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Even Miss Avery pointed all this out. Parts of the island are covered with thick woods. There are massive glacial cutouts along the shoreline allowing for a multitude of caves and caverns. State police and forensic crews have been out there all day. But the geography here is such that someone might well be hiding on the island. We haven’t found a damned thing. They haven’t been able to give us anything from the mainland.”

“It’s only been, what, about ten or twelve hours?” Jackson asked.

“About twelve since we walked into the hotel this morning,” Mike said. “And a long time for scared civilians. We’re going to have to arrange for Coast Guard vessels to get everyone back.” He looked over at Jackson, and shook his head slightly. “Director Enfield said you weren’t taking over the investigation from our end, but—are you?”

“No,” Jackson said. “I don’t know Alaska. You two do.”

“But you had to have been on a plane two seconds after reports of Natalie Fontaine’s murder hit the system this morning.”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. I guess I was waiting to hear about something. Natalie Fontaine’s murder coincided with Tate Morley escaping. I guess I’m here on a hunch,” he said, looking over at Thor.

Thor smiled ruefully and told his old partner, “I had a dream last night—a nightmare, I guess one would say.”

That caused Jackson to look at Mike again and speak carefully.

“About the Fairy Tale victims?” he asked.

“Yep.”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah, well, I woke up shaking myself.”

Mike was studying Jackson. Jackson looked back at him. “You’re about to ask me something. As in, do I head a unit of ghost hunters?”

Mike grinned. “No, actually, from all I’ve heard, you do lead a unit of ghost hunters.”

“What were you going to ask?” Jackson asked him.

“Sioux?” Mike said.

Jackson shook his head. “Cheyenne. My dad’s side. Why?”

Mike shrugged. “No reason. Except pride. Inuit, here. Old Thor’s got some in him, too, though you’d never know it from that thatch of platinum on his head. It’s just that I think our Native American people are more open to—well, shamans have always been more into reading dreams than priests. Quite frankly, the Russian influence here brought about a ton of people belonging to their Orthodox church, but...hey, maybe it’s the in thing these days to be more native. Anyway, if you two saw something in a dream—hell, I’m up to believing it.”

Jackson laughed. “Honestly? I had a Scottish grandmother more into the spiritual world than my dad’s family, and whatever works, that’s what I believe in.”

“That works for me. But let’s just lay it all out. Bring me up to speed,” Mike said. “Thor and I have been partners for a few years. I know his intuitions are damned good, and I don’t know if he’s listening to the spirit of an ancestor, a voice in the wind or his own gut. I just know that it’s worth paying attention to the voices—wherever the hell they come from.”

Thor looked at Jackson. “You dreamed about Mandy Brandt,” he said.

Jackson nodded.

“Same dream,” Thor said.

“I see you in front of me and I see him, Tate Morley, and the way he was standing over Mandy Brandt. I hear the sound...you shooting Tate Morley. And I can’t help but wonder if we wouldn’t be plagued by the dreams—if it wouldn’t have been better—if we hadn’t done the right thing and called for an ambulance.”

“Bad situation,” Thor said. “My aim wasn’t great—I couldn’t get a clear shot. We’re taught to shoot to kill in situations like that. I meant to kill him.” He paused; the moral quandary there was pretty brutal. He and Jackson could have finished the man off, or just let him die; even if they had just let him die, in reality, it would have been murder.

But would it have been better to have committed that murder—and possibly saved lives in the future?

“The question is moot,” Jackson said, as if reading his mind. “Neither of us knew if the injury was or wasn’t mortal at the time.”

That was true.

Except he knew that both he and Jackson had been afraid since Tate Morley had been convicted and incarcerated. Prisons were expensive from the get-go; trials were staggering. Executions somehow cost the state far more than incarceration for life—except that incarceration for life sometimes didn’t mean life!

“This can’t be Tate Morley,” Thor said. “He escaped in Kansas—I’m sure the authorities are all over finding him there. Everything about this is different. Different method of killing. Totally different display. Except...”

“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.

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