“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 drea
med 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.”