Deadly Fate

by Heather Graham

  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 rud
e. 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.

  Naturally, they wanted her to drop everything and come home.

  She convinced them that she couldn’t, that she was doing well, and that as soon as the Fate had sailed a few times with the new show, they had to come aboard.

  “Personnel,” Amelia murmured when Clara had hung up. “I’m personnel for a different company.”

  “Amelia, I’m sorry. I had to say something to my parents.”

  Amelia nodded. “My mom died when I was kid. I haven’t seen my father in fifteen years. Bet he’ll be crying for me now, though. That will put him on the news.”

  “I truly am sorry.”

  “Guess it’s best that there’s no one out there to really care,” Amelia said. “I never even had any real girlfriends. Natalie was the closest—we were both ambitious. That made us pals, I guess.”

  “Amelia...” Clara hesitated, feeling ridiculous. Oh, God! If she ever told any of this to a shrink, they’d lock her up forever.

  But...

  “Amelia, we’re friends,” Clara said. “We didn’t have time to know each other well, but we’re friends.”

  “Think we could have talked about guys and done pedicures together and stuff like that?” Amelia asked her.

  “Sure.”

  “I should have done things like that,” Amelia murmured.

  There was a sharp rap on Clara’s door. “Hey, Clara! It’s Simon!”

  “Hang on, two minutes!” she called, hurrying over to her drawer for clothing. “Friend of mine!” she told Amelia, and she paused to smile. “Another friend,” she said softly, and ran quickly back into the bathroom to dress.

  When she emerged, however, she didn’t see Amelia. She was glad in a way; she wasn’t sure that she could keep Simon from seeing how weirdly she was behaving if Amelia had remained and kept talking to her.

  She opened the door. Simon looked at her expectantly. “I had to pass muster with the guy in the hall,” he told her. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Come on in.”

  Simon did so.

  “Everyone is as jumpy as Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!” he said, finding a perch at the foot of the bed—almost where Amelia had just been. “And you’re worrying me,” he told her.

  “I’m worrying you? Why?” Clara asked him.

  She had just met Simon when he’d joined the chorus of Les Miz on the Destiny—his first chorus role, one he’d never gotten to perform. He had a really nice voice, good movement, and she’d been thrilled when he’d been cast in Annabelle Lee.

  He had a great look—long, lean and thoughtful—which boded well for his career. He was caring, too—he’d taken some major chances trying to save Alexi on the Destiny.

  “Well, Amelia Carson was really gorgeous—and I see you that way, too,” he told her.

  She smiled. “Thanks. But look around. There are a lot of pretty young women in the area.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, we’re associated with all this. It was the day we all thought we were just doing Vacation USA that this all happened.” He sighed deeply. “I guess I’m glad our new girl isn’t here yet,” he murmured. “Long dark hair—cute as a button.”

  “Simon, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry. We were just on a ship with the Archangel killer!”

  “Yes, but...that was different.”

  “Yeah. We’re not on a ship. Alexi isn’t here. I guess I’m scared because... I don’t know. I was watching television. The reporters caught Misty Blaine coming out of the police station. She’s terrified! She said so. They have cops all over now, though, at the Nordic Lights Hotel. And she’s...she’s kind of a frazzled-looking little thing. Like Marc Kimball’s assistant. Man, someone should tell that guy that slavery and indentured servants went out over a century ago! Jerk, huh?”

  “Yes, an amazing jerk,” Clara agreed.

  “Good. I was afraid you might be unable to withstand his adoration, and money, power, all that rot.”

  “Simon! I’m not that shallow.”

  “Shallow? Hell, you endure a guy like Marc Kimball for a year, get a divorce and walk away. Now, I guess that’s shallow. But what good business sense.”

  “I have a job—I’m a lucky actress. Not a household name, but working in theater, which I love. I don’t need a fortune.”

  “Yes, but...well, anyone could use a fortune, right?”

  She shook her head. “Simon, he is a creepy jerk of a man. I will remind you of this conversation when creepy women are after you, okay?”

  “How creepy?”

  “Argh!”

  He grinned. “Well, at least I made you smile. Seriously, though, watch out for that guy.”

  “I will. I promise. I don’t trust Marc Kimball at all.”

  “Want to have dinner with Ralph and Larry and me and talk about people?”

  She grinned at that. “Sure. I’m here until the Feds go back.”

  Simon’s smile faded. “Why are you going back? You should be here with us—recuperating, as the bosses see it.”

  “I just feel that I can help.”

  He bit his lip, lowering his head. “You hang on to the FBI guys with everything you got, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, downstairs in an hour?”

  “Downstairs in an hour,” she said.

  He left; she looked out in the hall. Her officer was still there. He’d gotten a chair, at least. He smiled and waved to her. She smiled and waved, too.

  Turning back into her room, she almost walked straight back into Amelia.

  “I really like him,” Amelia said. “Wish I could have gotten to know him.”

  “Simon is a good guy,” Clara assured her. She wished, however, that Amelia would have stayed gone awhile longer; she needed some private time.

  Her wish was going to be fulfilled—the ghost began to fade.

  “Oh!” Amelia said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.
I just... I fade sometimes and I think I sleep and... I really can’t control it yet,” she told Clara.

  “Then you need rest,” Clara said.

  “I’m a ghost!” Amelia said indignantly.

  “Maybe even ghosts need rest!”

  Amelia didn’t reply. She was gone. Clara tossed herself back on her bed and closed her eyes.

  She really needed a little rest herself.

  * * *

  The task force meeting took place at the offices of the state police. There were dozens of officers in attendance along with representatives from every conceivable law enforcement agency and the Coast Guard.

  Special Director Enfield was there, and so was Detective Brennan.

  There was a fine air of determination in the room. Every officer just wanted answers, and the killer caught.

  They began with what they knew about the murder of Natalie Fontaine. Natalie was last seen the evening before her death in the lobby meeting with her crew, including Amelia Carson, Becca Marle, Nate Mahoney and Thomas Marchant. She had seemed excited—according to the surviving members of her crew, it was because they had just returned from “setting” Black Bear Island for the day to come.

  The call about a commotion had come at just about 5:00 a.m.—minutes after the desk clerk had briefly seen Amelia Carson on the phone in the lobby.

  The only cameras at the Nordic Lights Hotel were in the lobby and at the ATM.

  Every boat captain at every point was being queried about Amelia Carson; the captain who had gotten her across to the island could not be found. Speculation was that the killer did indeed have a boat and that he perhaps got her to the island, strangled her, removed her to the pine forest for bisection and then displayed her where she was found.

  The medical examiner, Dr. Andropov, who had been the lead on both bodies, stated the women had been strangled and were dead before being decapitated and bisected. Before being strangled to death, they’d both been struck with a blunt object, the nature of that object unknown. The tool used on the bodies after death, he believed, had been either a custom or specialized spade or woodsman’s ax or hatchet; a broad weapon with a honed blade. He displayed various sketches of what he believed the weapon to be, emphasizing the fact that it wasn’t easy to remove a head—it required a sharp instrument and a fair amount of strength—and that it was even more difficult to cut a human being in half.