“We still have people in the caves and caverns,” he told them. “They’ve got camping gear. They’ll work through the night.”
“They have techs and cops out there,” Thor said. He looked at Clara. “The caves and caverns are extensive. Beautiful when times are good. Ice is so powerful...it’s like you’re in haphazardly designed crystal palaces. The killer has taken advantage.” He glanced over at Mike. “They’ve enough of a police presence still, right?”
Mike nodded. “Yep. They’ll be working in shifts, police guards on and off. Though to be honest, neither Brennan nor Enfield seem to think that anyone in a group is in danger—they believe that the killer, or killers, watch carefully, and strike when a woman is alone.” He looked around at Jackson, Thor and Clara, and said, “I’m famished. Anyone else?”
“Let’s see if the Goth Magda has gotten something together for dinner,” Thor said, and asked Clara, “Has Kimball been around?”
“I don’t know,” she told him. “Jackson and I were with the Wickedly Weird people.”
“According to the cops, he’s been upstairs all day,” Jackson said.
Leaving the office behind, they discovered that Magda Crowley, as sour-faced as ever, was in the living room, looking for them to announce that dinner was being served.
“And if anyone cares, you can check on those film people,” she said. She said the words film people as if she were speaking of an inferior alien race.
“They were all cleaning up and taking showers,” the police officer on guard in the house told them.
“They should be out by now,” Clara said. “I’ll check on Becca, just in case she is ready.”
“I think she said she was going to take a nap,” the on-duty police officer told her. “I’ll just knock on their doors. You folks go ahead.”
He headed on down the hallway to the left. Marc Kimball arrived—coming from his “secret” door and the right hallway. He greeted everyone politely and gravely and, as they headed for seats at the table, he asked Thor and Jackson about their discovery on the island.
“I know that you found the weapons. Or tools. The man’s actual weapon was his hands, right?” Kimball asked matter-of-factly. “So tool, I guess, is the right description.”
“Yes, that’s what we found,” Thor said. “Tools,” he added quietly.
“Does this mean...that you’ll finish soon here on the island?” he asked.
“We will move with all possible speed,” Thor promised.
Jackson stepped in diplomatically. “Again, Mr. Kimball, both the police and the Bureau thank you for your cooperation and hospitality.”
“Of course, of course,” Kimball said. He lowered his voice. “As of tomorrow, those film people will be off the island. I should have known better than to rent to anyone involved with reality TV! As for tonight...well, please, do sit down. Magda has come up with her amazing chicken Marsala for the evening. Right, Magda?”
Magda gave him a sour look. “Getting cold, too,” Magda said with a sniff.
Emmy Vincenzo came hurrying out. She looked around as if she’d been afraid no one would notice if she wasn’t there. Clara greeted her warmly.
She gave Clara a warm smile in return.
Marc Kimball didn’t acknowledge her presence.
“Ah, here come the Wickedly Weird!” Kimball announced. “And now, we can all take our seats!”
Kimball pulled out a chair for Clara; she accepted with a murmured thank-you, aware that he would sit next to her. Jackson pulled out a chair for Emmy, and Mike for Becca.
The men all took their seats. Kimball started right out by addressing Tommy. “You’ve finished—completely finished?” he asked. “Naturally, I will be making an inspection to see if my property was damaged in any way.”
“Nothing has been damaged—everything is picked up and clean. We’ve made sure that your Mansion is spotless,” Tommy said tightly. “We have all of our props and equipment in suitcases and boxes in our rooms. We’ll be ready to vacate the island for good in the morning.”
“Your property is absolutely fine,” Becca burst in, and added, “Our hostess and our producer are not fine—they’re dead. In pieces,” she added.
There was a silence around the table, but Kimball wasn’t going to allow it. “Has it occurred to you, Ms. Marle, that some people don’t think that your humor—in which they are made to feel terrified and dreadful—is funny?”
Becca made a sound in her throat. Tommy looked as if he was about to jump to his feet and deck Kimball.
Thor spoke up quickly, and with a sobering authority. “Mr. Kimball, the state of taste in television is not at debate in the capture of a deranged criminal. Some people don’t like sports—they change the channel, they don’t go on a spree killing quarterbacks. We believe that these victims were chosen because of opportunity—and, perhaps, even because of your tremendous wealth and presence. Display and publicity mean a lot. The killer revels in every tiny news article on his deeds.”
“Yes, and I understand you had him—and lost him,” Kimball said.
He was trying to bait people, Clara knew. And she wondered why.
Was he guilty in some way—or was he just enjoying his power to be cruel?
She was aware that something in both Jackson and Thor changed; tightened, or grew darker. Yet neither man’s expression flickered, nor did they make any movements to show that the words had indeed affected them.
“It’s the Fairy Tale Killer,” Magda said flatly, setting a bowl of steaming rice on the table.
“Quite possibly,” Thor said. “And, yes, he was put away. We don’t manage the justice system. That is something you’ll need to bring up with your congressmen and senators, and they can ponder during their legislative sessions.”
“No, well, of course you don’t manage any of that. And of course I’m happy to offer the safety of this house—with so many fine officers surrounding it—while you deal with this most tragic situation,” Kimball said. He turned his attention to Clara. “My dear, when this is all over, you must see more of the true splendor of Alaska. It’s a huge state! Coming here for me is amazing—leaving the dirt and buildings of New York City behind, seeing the sky...beautiful!”
“Yes, it’s all beautiful,” Clara said. She hated being pleasant to the man in any way, but the others at the table were now so heated that she was afraid someone was going to wind up brawling out in the snow. “We saw a moose today—for someone who is not from here, it was a breathtaking moment.”
“Ah, well, you can see black and brown bears, too. Grizzlies!” Kimball told her. “Have to watch out for them, but, luckily, bears are actually kind of shy. You have to be careful not to get between them and a food supply, but other than that, you can really see them best on a tour. I’ve only seen a few, even here on the island.”
He continued to extoll the virtues of the island and Alaska.
Clara noted that although Becca said something now and then, neither Tommy nor Nate offered a word of conversation.
Emmy was silent throughout as well, keeping her head down as she ate.
Dinner seemed to last forever. And then it was over and Thor and Mike and Jackson spoke about sleeping arrangements and who would stay awake in the living room when.
Clara escaped to her room quickly and waited, certain Thor would come when he could; from the little bit of conversation she heard, he was keeping first watch.
She showered, paced and realized that she was growing tenser with each passing minute. She needed to breathe, to calm down and...stay sane.
Thor had taken a few hours of the first watch. She had to be patient.
She expected the ghost of Amelia Carson to make an appearance. She did not.
At last, there was a soft rap on the door. She started to open it, remembered that Kimball h
ad been the one out there before, and waited until she heard Thor speak. “Clara, it’s me.”
Then she nearly jerked the door from its hinges, and when he entered, she barely let him in before she threw her arms around him.
Of course, after that first moment, she drew back slightly, thinking that she’d almost knocked him over, and she murmured, “I’m sorry, I...”
She didn’t finish. His arms were around her, his lips were crushing down on hers, and her limbs seemed to burn with the liquid heat that fired their kiss. She held back long enough for him to deal with his gun and holster and then, together, they began to divest clothing so that it lay in a tangle on the floor. She felt the fiery wet sear of his kiss as they fell upon the bed in the remnants of their clothing, a sweet, erotic pressure as his mouth moved from hers and over her flesh. The air was cold; his touch seemed to be thousands of degrees, and even as she clung to him urgently, he continued to caress her naked flesh with his tongue and lips and a feathery and then firm touch. She responded in like fashion, both of them reaching out to touch more of one another, and still he managed to move his lips over the length of her, down her midriff and torso, along her inner thighs, into and over her in such a way that she climaxed even as she grew aroused again. Time and space transcended. There seemed to be nothing more than the desperate and vital urgency to be together. He moved with such luxurious sensuality; his form seemed to be all that filled her, the room, the night, the world.
And then there were the moments afterward when they just lay there together, breathing. They didn’t speak then and it didn’t matter; they touched one another again and again...and the night went on.
They slept.
And then, Thor began to toss and turn.
Clara bolted up, trying to touch him, trying to stop him from his thrashing.
His eyes opened and he stared at her without seeing her. He said a single word.
“Mandy!”
“Thor?” she murmured. It wasn’t with fear or jealousy; she knew who Mandy was.
And Mandy was dead.
He blinked, seeing her, and he suddenly held her close. “Something is happening,” he said. “Something has happened!”
13
Thor was up with jeans on and Glock in his waistband in seconds; Clara was almost as fast.
He got to the door, but then stopped and turned back. She knew his sense of urgency—and knew as well that same sense meant he wasn’t leaving her, not for a second.
Wrapped in one of the Alaska Hut’s heavy terry robes, she was behind him in a split second.
They were down the hall and in the living room in a few breathless steps.
And there, Thor stopped dead, confused, worried.
Mike Aklaq was seated on the sofa, reading a magazine, sipping coffee.
An officer in uniform leaned against the wall. Light from the outside was streaming in; Clara reckoned that had to mean it was about six thirty or seven in the morning.
Mike stood; the officer pushed away from the wall.
“Where’s Jackson?” Thor asked.
The question had barely left his mouth before Jackson came down the hallway, as if he’d been mentally summoned long before words had been spoken.
“Thor?” he asked.
Thor nodded to his ex-partner and Clara realized they’d shared something again that others weren’t going to understand.
“Marc Kimball,” Jackson said, heading for the stairs.
“Mike, have you seen Magda and Justin yet?”
“No, I made coffee myself,” Mike said.
“Find them,” Thor said. He looked at the state policeman on duty and read his badge. “Officer Grady, check with the men outside. Find out if they’ve seen anything unusual—anyone around here at all, other than those supposed to be in the house.”
“Yes, sir!” the officer said, and went to do as bidden.
Thor was then headed to the doors in the hallway, banging on the door to Nate Mahoney’s room. When he heard Nate call out in startled surprise, he moved on to Tommy’s door.
Clara hurried past him to Becca’s door. She raised her hand to tap on it, but paused for a second; it was just a fraction of an inch open.
Clara held still for a moment, then pushed the door.
The curtains were drawn over the windows; they were heavy, made for a place where the sun barely ever set for a season.
It was bright outside—but not in here. All that illuminated the room was the very pale glow of light that filtered in from the hallway.
She looked in. There was a form she could just make out on the bed.
It appeared that Becca Marle was sleeping peacefully. In fact, Clara almost stepped back out of the room, thinking that Becca was fine and needed that sleep.
But something compelled her to move forward.
She walked over to the bed, becoming aware of a strange odor, something that had a wet smell about it.
As she neared Becca, she almost balked—she was suddenly afraid of what she would find.
She froze in the middle of the room.
She tried to scream; her first effort was pale. She managed to shout out one word at last.
“Thor!”
He was there in a moment; a light flashed on in the room as he hit the switch.
And she saw what she wished she had never seen...
It was a tableau, set out to shock and to horrify.
Becca was there... Rather, the remains of Becca were there, and yet it was hard to say for certain that it was Becca.
Her nose had been slashed. She lay to one side. The bedside table held...things.
Body parts and pieces.
And all she could do was remember the picture she had seen in the trash basket at the cabin rented by Connie Shaw.
A picture of a long-ago murder.
That of Mary Kelly...known as Jack the Ripper’s last victim.
Except that this hadn’t happened long ago.
Becca Marle had been killed and mutilated in the hours just passed...
With her and Jackson and policemen and women...just a hundred yards away.
She screamed; her scream was loud and piercing and filled with horror.
And it took a long, long time after Thor rushed in, held her, shook her gently and spoke over and over again, for his words to sink in.
“It’s not real, Clara. Not real. It’s staged. This isn’t Becca Marle. It’s a dummy. It’s staged—this is another scene that has been staged!”
He turned her around to look at him, to see the truth in his eyes. “It’s not real, Clara. It’s not real—it’s not real.”
* * *
Thor was furious at himself, as were the others.
Whatever the hell had happened, had happened with all of them right there! With police patrolling the property. With a cop in the hall, an agent on the sofa!
“It’s not fucking real. Another staged scene. Why the hell would Becca do such a thing?” It was Tommy Marchant who exploded with the words.
He just as quickly rescinded his words. “No! Becca wouldn’t do this!”
It had only been minutes since they’d discovered the “murder” scene in the bedroom. Since there hadn’t been a scream, a sound—nothing at all heard by anyone outside the room—the logical assumption was that Becca Marle had created the scene herself, and then slipped away.
But had she? Or had someone somehow gotten into that room with her?
“But what the hell, how the hell...and where is Becca?” Tommy said.
Thor was furious and frustrated. And he knew that Jackson and Mike were feeling the same way—even while being grateful that the scene that had been left for them wasn’t real.
It had been artfully staged. Just like
the carnage the Wickedly Weird crew had set up at the Mansion. The woman left in Becca’s place—chopped to ribbons and covered with stage blood—had been a fabrication. Thor had done a cursory inspection of the room while Mike had watched over the inhabitants of the Alaska Hut and Jackson had searched outside.
No prints. There had been a powdery snow last night—light, but enough to cover someone’s tracks. Someone who knew Alaska and had probably known the weather report for the island.
Thor cursed, because he hadn’t seen or heard anything. He tried not to hate himself too much because he knew that there had been a policeman on duty right there in the hallway.
Mike Aklaq had been just feet away from the door.
One of them had been there through the night.
And he still wouldn’t have known—none of them would have known—if it hadn’t been for his dream about Mandy Brandt.
A dream he had apparently shared with Jackson; once again, he knew it. He saw it in his ex-partner’s eyes.
“Becca didn’t do this—she wouldn’t do this!” Nate swore. “You can think what you want about reality TV and bad taste, but we’re just the workforce. Most of us have worked on movies—good movies, some that mattered. This is just what we do for a living, what we’re told to do. The whole blood and guts thing was Natalie’s idea, not ours! Becca wasn’t into it from the start. And that said, you ought to be worried about her. I know I am.”
“We are worried. We’re heading out to find her,” Thor told him flatly.
Nate and Tommy began to protest, both speaking over one another. Thor looked at Jackson and Mike and then nodded to the policeman to stay on top of everyone as he moved back into the room. Jackson, he knew, would head out and speak to the officers on patrol around the house.
Mike would stay with the cop, watching those in the room.
Whoever had been in the room wasn’t invisible; no one had gone by the cop or Mike Aklaq as he’d set himself up for hours of guard duty on the sofa.
That meant the window.
Thor cursed himself for not reiterating over and over again that the windows should be kept locked at all times. Then again, if Becca had created the setup—which seemed most logical and plausible—she had opened the window herself to escape.