Deadly Fate (12 page)

“What is it?” Jackson called, coming up behind him.

Thor stopped dead and hunkered down again, looking around.

He reached out with his gloved hands and grasped a tuft of blue fabric.

A tiny piece of the jeans Amelia Carson had been wearing. At least, a good chance that was what he'd found.

He touched the ground.

Still damp. Dark and damp.

It was the blood pool, the place where Amelia Carson had been severed in two.

7

C
lara didn't speak about her conversation with Amelia until she was on the little Coast Guard cutter heading back to the mainland. The officers aboard were courteous and tense, aware they were in the middle of an investigation in which many lives might still lie in the balance.

She waited until she was alone with Jackson and Thor at the back of the boat.

Even then, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. She didn't know why; she felt safe with Thor and Jackson and the Coast Guard men. Mike wasn't with them because he had remained behind on the island—the FBI officers had decided that one of them should stay there until the situation was solved.

Some situations were never solved, she knew.

This one had to be—it just had to be.

Once they were headed back to the mainland, however, she knew that she had to tell Jackson and Thor what had happened.

She knew that both men would believe her, and she dreaded that, because it meant her newfound camaraderie with a dead woman was far too real. And they did believe her; they both listened to her gravely as she spoke.

“We found where she was killed,” Jackson said.

“On the island, right?” Clara asked.

“Yes,” Thor told her, watching her as he spoke. “We've been in contact with Special Director Enfield and Detective Brennan. They rushed the autopsies yesterday.” He paused, looking over at Jackson. “Both women were struck with hard objects and rendered unconscious quickly, and then strangled before they were—cut,” he said. He glanced over at Jackson, whose lips pursed grimly. It seemed they both knew something she didn't, and they weren't sharing it with her. Even though anyone associated with the two dead women might be in danger.

“Thank God for that at least. I mean,” she added, wincing, “hopefully, it was...quick. I couldn't begin to imagine if someone had been alive while being...cut.”

“So, a man called Amelia and told her he had an amazing story for her—and that he'd meet her on the island?” Thor asked.

“That's what I understood,” Clara told him.

“Her cell phone hasn't been found, but the phone company sent her records. Techs are chasing down her calls,” Jackson said. “We may find something.”

Thor nodded. “Yep, we'll find that she was called by a no-contract phone bought with cash. But it will be important to track down where that phone was purchased.”

Jackson rose. “I'm going to get some coffee. Want some?” he asked the two of them.

“No, thank you,” Clara said. She'd had plenty of coffee while waiting for them to return.

Thor was staring out over the water. Clara remained silent for a minute, and then decided that she'd just ask.

“What's going on between you and Jackson?”

He turned his attention to her, frowning. “Pardon?”

“What is it that you two are sharing—about Natalie and Amelia and...whatever is going on?”

He was quiet for a minute.

“Jackson and I were partners years ago,” he told her.

“Yes, I understand that.” She hesitated. “Did you have a bad time, or...”

He shook his head. “We were good partners—great partners. But there was a killer out there at the time. The newspapers called him the ‘Fairy Tale Killer' because he left his victims' bodies displayed as if they were characters from stories—tales by the Brothers Grimm. Cinderella, Briar Rose—or Sleeping Beauty, as she's more widely known—Rapunzel, Snow White.”

“I remember... I had just started college,” Clara said. “He was shot by agents but he survived and went to prison and...oh. You were those agents?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But—you caught him. You saved countless other potential victims. Why do you suspect him?”

“Because he's out.”

“What?”

“He's out—he killed a doctor and escaped from a prison in Kansas.”

“Oh,” she said. “I hadn't heard—”

“Because the news just hit yesterday morning and by the time any of us saw television out on the island, all the stations were carrying all the ‘new' news on the killings that happened here,” Thor explained.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I can only imagine how you feel, having caught him and now... Do you think that this man, this Fairy Tale Killer, could be here—in Alaska?” she asked, wincing as she heard her tone, which was slightly incredulous. She went on quickly. “From what I understood back then, he left his victims looking...beautiful. As if they were sleeping.”

He nodded and looked away from her. She found herself studying him, and in doing so, and from their conversation, feeling as if she knew him better, as if they'd formed some kind of bond. Despite their bizarre beginning and the resentment she'd felt at times, she suddenly felt close to him—like an old friend. More than a friend. She looked down quickly, realizing that in an instant, something inside her had changed, and she felt an almost overwhelming attraction to the man. He'd become so human.

They were talking about incidents of horror and terrible things that plagued the soul.

And yet, what she wanted at that moment was to touch him and assure him that she knew—she knew from knowing him—that at every turn he'd done the right thing, and that he couldn't blame himself for anything.

“You know Jackson Crow,” he said softly, looking back at her. “And you know about the Krewe of Hunters.”

“I know that they saved us on the ship and I know...” She broke off, feeling a little breathless.

Ghosts.

While many reports on the work done by the Krewe of Hunters had speculated on their unorthodox methods, none had ridiculed them—they had brought too many highly unusual cases to their conclusions.

They'd locked up a hell of a lot of bad guys.

“Yes, I know something about the Krewe,” she murmured.

Thor stared at her. Apparently, he'd decided just to explain—and she could take it or leave it.

“The last victim was a young woman named Mandy Brandt. She'd come to the Bureau and told us that her friend had been dating someone she found to be questionable. We had a zillion such reports at the time, but I believed Mandy—so did Jackson. So we started tracking the man she was talking about and it was Tate Morley. We even went after him right away, but...” He paused, and he looked out to sea again, shaking his head. “Not before he got Mandy.”

“And you feel responsible,” Clara said. “But...you said you and Jackson started right away, working on her information.”

“Not fast enough,” he said.

“I can only imagine how you feel. But you might have saved countless other young women. He was creating his own line of fairy-tale princesses. He could have killed for years and years.”

“Yes, we both know that,” Thor said. He offered her something of a wistful, rueful smile. “You see, we both knew Mandy.”

Clara nodded at that. “I'm sorry. So sorry.” She inhaled deeply. “And now this man you and Jackson caught...is out.”

She hadn't heard Jackson returning, but he was right behind her.

“That's what brought me,” he said, taking a seat again by her side. “I got the news about the killing of Natalie Fontaine at the hotel right after we received the reports that Tate Morley was out.”

“And the thing is...” Thor said, glancing at Jackson.

“We both had dreams about Mandy,” Jackson said.

“As if we were watching movies of the time we found her and shot Tate,” Thor said.

“So...you think that Mandy's spirit came to you in dreams and warned you that Tate Morley was out and killing again, and you linked it with these murders?”

Jackson and Thor looked at one another again.

“Yes,” Jackson said.

“That's about it,” Thor agreed.

“Oh.”

“We're the only ones who think that, by the way,” Jackson told her.

They were waiting—waiting for her to speak.

“I just... Well, from what I've read...and seen,” she said, not able to forget coming across Amelia's body in the snow, “these murders are very different. I mean, you two are the agents. You've been through years of working with killers...but this just seems the work of someone different.”

“Yes,” Thor agreed. “But, maybe not. Tate Morley was in prison for ten years. He escaped by coldly killing a doctor and walking out with his credentials.”

“He stabbed the doctor in the throat with a shank he managed to create from a ripped-out piece of toilet plumbing,” Jackson told her. “The Fairy Tale victims were strangled.”

“These victims were strangled before he took a knife to them, or whatever weapon or tool he used to cut them,” Thor said.

“The killer likes sensationalism,” Jackson noted.

“Like reality television,” Thor said.

“Theatricality,” Jackson said. He let out a breath and looked at Thor. “I just learned from the captain on the ship that the media already has a name for this guy. ‘The Media Monster.'”

Thor winced. “Great.”

“So, you really think that this might be the same man. Then if you saw him, you'd recognize him, right?” Clara asked.

“Yes,” Jackson said. “Unless...”

“Unless he's disguised himself in some unknown way,” Thor said. “Then, of course, we might both be crazy. Tate Morley might be thousands of miles away.”

“Maybe not,” Clara said, having no real idea of what she was thinking at all. She could see that they were approaching Seward. She stood, watching the approaching shoreline. The different areas of the port were busy; the charming and colorful waterfront businesses were filled with shoppers and businessmen and women moving about on their workday.

There was no snow in the city; the temperature felt much warmer than the island, as well—perhaps somewhere between fifty and sixty.

It all seemed so normal. People were surely talking about the horrible and grisly murders. But they were distanced from them. They would be aghast at what had been done to the women, but it wouldn't touch them intimately.

Parents would keep close watch on beautiful daughters. Husbands would watch their wives. They would all bitch and moan about the police and the FBI—and wonder how they had not yet caught such a horrid killer.

And still...

Seward would feel much more normal than Black Bear Island!

“You wish to go straight to your hotel?” Thor asked her. “The Hawthorne?”

“Yes, please,” she said. “I... Yes.”

“You don't need to be afraid,” Thor told her. “We'll have an officer with you at all times.”

She gave him an awkward smile. “I rate personal protection?”

“Yes.”

His answer wasn't reassuring. But a woman had been murdered in a hotel room. She was sure that few visitors to Seward were treading hotel hallways alone.

They were met at the dock by a tall gray-haired man with a lean, fit physique and a grim, bulldog face.

He was, Clara learned, Special Director in Charge Reginald Enfield. He didn't speak much in the car, but saw to it that Clara was brought to her hotel and that she was escorted into the lobby. There she was introduced to Officer Kinney, who would be watching over her hallway while she was in her room. She thanked Kinney and watched while Thor drove away.

Officer Kinney was from Nome, had attended Northwestern and was now back in Alaska. He'd missed his home state; he'd always known he wanted to be a cop.

He checked out her room before he left her to stand guard in the hallway.

She rushed for the shower, despite the fact that she'd had one that morning. She was anxious to shower
and
put on her own clean clothing.

It was while she was in there that she heard a voice. It startled her so that she slammed her head against the tile.

A shiver seized her as she remembered she was locked in her room—and a cop was on duty outside.

“Yoo-hoo... Clara?”

She closed her eyes. The ghost of Amelia Carson was out in her hotel bedroom.

Wrapping her towel around herself, Clara came out. Amelia was perched on the bed, her hands folded around her knees.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Yes, I was known for it, but...I'm learning how to be nicer,” Amelia said.

Was Clara crazy? Weren't ghosts supposed to haunt certain places? As in, the place where they had been murdered?

“How did you get here?” Clara asked.

“The boat, of course. I was on the boat.”

She had felt as if she was being watched.

“I didn't see you.”

Amelia shrugged. “You weren't looking.”

“Why didn't you come and talk to us? I told you—you need to speak with the FBI men.”

“I know. I'll try. But, I figured it wasn't really the right time.”

“But it is the right time for you to pop into my room?”

“I'm sorry. I will knock, always, in the future,” she promised. Her eyes seemed to cloud with pain. “Honestly, do you think that I was murdered for being...rude?”

“Amelia, I think you were murdered because someone out there is a sick son of a bitch. And I only really know you from one meeting and the tabloids. I'm sure you're a good person at heart.”

“I was. Really. At heart. And now, I'm going to prove it. I'm going to watch over you.”

“Nice,” Clara murmured.

Clara jumped and nearly dropped her towel when her phone started ringing.

It was her mom. And it wasn't an easy conversation. Her mother was all but crazy with worry; Clara assured her over and over again that she was fine, that personnel from a television company had been involved and not the cast from the cruise ship. She told her that officers were guarding the hotel hallways and that she really couldn't be safer.

Amelia tried to look away while she spoke.

Then Clara's dad got on the line—and Clara went through the whole thing again.