Deadly Fate (11 page)

If he wanted her to explain why she had gone with them, he was doomed to disappointment.

“Yes, I'll probably just lie down for a bit, but I do need to close my eyes. Thank you again for your incredible hospitality, and forgive me,” she said. “Emmy, nice to spend time with you.”

“What? Sorry?” Emmy said, looking up from her bowl at last.

“It was nice to spend some time with you,” Clara repeated.

“Oh, yes, lovely, of course!” Emmy said.

Clara smiled—and escaped as quickly as she could, hurrying down the hall.

That day, there was only one man from the state police in the hut. He was more relaxed; seated on a chair in the living room, he had a newspaper in his hands. It was a national paper. The headline screamed Murder in the Arctic; Horror Show in Alaska.

The officer stood as she walked by, quickly hiding the paper and assuring her he was on duty.

She thanked him and went on to her room.

She didn't want to close the door; if she did so, the officer wouldn't seem to be in easy reach.

But if she didn't, Marc Kimball might come by and feel that he should reassure her.

She wondered for a moment if she was more afraid of the living—or the dead.

She stood there debating for a while and then heard Kimball's voice.

She closed the door. Walking to the window, she threw open the drapes. The sun was pounding down hard. The windows filled the room with light.

The sunlight seemed to beat off the snow and create a dazzling display of brilliance. Glad of it, Clara lay down. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

She woke to the soft sound of tapping at her door. For a moment, she was afraid to open her eyes.

Then she did. The light was streaming in. No ghosts stood at the foot of her bed.

With a soft sigh of relief, she stood and hurried to the door, throwing it open.

An arctic
freeze seemed to settle over her. She could see—with peripheral vision—that the cop was still sitting on the sofa. He was idly drumming his fingers on the occasional table at his side, and gazing at the television.

He hadn't noted that she'd opened her door.

Or that a scream was caught in her throat.

Amelia Carson stood at her door, her expression anguished.

“Please!”

For a moment, Clara couldn't snap out of it. Then she heard Kimball's voice from somewhere and reached out to draw Amelia into the room. Of course, her fingers went through air. But Amelia came on in; to her own amazement, Clara shut the door.

“I didn't want to be rude,” Amelia said. “Or startle or scare you and start you screaming...”

If what Clara had heard was true, Amelia didn't mind so much being rude. The woman had been very pleasant when they'd met, but Clara had heard that she could be something of a diva.

The past didn't matter much; Clara realized that she had drawn a ghost into her room and closed the door.

She stared at Amelia. “Why? Why are you coming to me?” she whispered, her voice sounding desperate. “Two FBI agents here will be able to see you—if you go to them, you'll be all right.”

Amelia walked into the room, heading to look through the windows out to the bright afternoon beyond. “Yes, the tall Nordic-looking guy. I figured he could see me. I get the feeling that his one friend could, too. I was afraid. Am afraid,” Amelia said. She turned and looked at Clara. “Dead, I am dead, and I know I am dead, and I am still so afraid. I don't know—can they still hurt you after you're dead?”

Clara stared back at her. She knew that if she were to describe this encounter to most people, they would assume the events on the
Destiny
had been too much for her and that she needed some serious rehab.

She shook her head. “Amelia, I don't know,” she said. “But, if you know anything...”

“I know I'm dead,” Amelia said bitterly. “And I never thought...oh!” she cried, sinking to the foot of the bed. “And I saw myself! He cut me in half! Right in half. How horrible, he couldn't even let me be as I was...” She paused and looked at Clara again. “And I heard... I've heard the talk. He
cut off
Natalie's head!”

Clara sat in the center of the bed, looking at Amelia. “I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. But, Amelia, do you know who did this to you? They can be arrested. They can pay.”

“Alaska has no death penalty,” Amelia said.

“Amelia, this person can be locked away for life and ninety-nine years—
life! Behind bars!
” Clara said.

Amelia shook her head. “That should be comforting, right? No, I don't want whoever did this to me to live, to see the sun, to feel the breeze.” She quietly began to cry.

Clara reached out—and of course, touched air.

“Amelia, who—who did this?”

But Amelia shook her head. “I don't know. I was on the phone with him. He called me the morning we were coming out to film you.” She flashed Clara an apologetic smile. “We were all set—giddy, really. I hadn't seen the Mansion yet. But I headed out early. He said he was going to be on the island. He'd be a great surprise guest for either or both shows we were filming, and he could give me a story I'd never forget. To be honest, he was so mysterious and charming, I thought it was Todd Beck, the bright young actor they just hired to play in the new superhero movie. He's working it right now, you know, publicity from every angle! It was a chance, yes, but I was willing to take it. Every once in a while, someone really big does want to be on one of our shows. Oh! I was such a fool, so eager! I hired the first boat I could find at the docks to get me out here. And then I walked toward the Mansion...but I never got there. I remember feeling as if there was a rush of air behind me...and then it seemed a clamp was around my throat, I couldn't breathe...and then...”

She started to sob again.

“And then?” Clara asked gently.

Amelia sat straight, staring at nothing, shaking her head in bitterness. She had been a beautiful young woman with her dark hair, light eyes and skin, and perfect bone structure.

“Then I saw myself,” she said. “And I realized that I was walking around...watching people, listening to people, trying to tell them that I was there. But they were totally oblivious to me, their attention on...the pieces of my body.”

“You never saw your killer?” Clara asked. She refrained from asking how she was here as a spirit now, but hadn't seen when the killer had cut her in half.

Maybe there were small mercies in the world.

“No. The world went pitch-black...and then I was there, watching all the forensic people work around me. I saw...what he did to me.”

At least he hadn't chopped her up when she'd been alive.

For a moment, there was silence between them. Then Amelia looked at Clara again. “I saw you—I saw your eyes. And I knew that you were horrified for me. Not
because
of me, but for me. And you barely even knew me. Oh, Clara! How could this have happened? Why did it happen? Was I being punished for thinking too much of myself? Am I... Will I walk around like this forever?”

Clara wasn't sure what to say to her.

I don't know, Amelia! I know nothing about being dead, yet. To the best of my knowledge, there is no
Being Dead for Dummies
book out as of now.

“Amelia, you weren't a bad person,” Clara tried.

“I was nasty to people who worked with me. I thought... I thought I'd be a huge star one day. I was in tabloids!” Amelia said.

Clara didn't assure her that she'd be front-page news on most of the tabloids that existed now—and on television and every other media source in the world, as well.

“But you weren't a bad person,” she repeated. “Bad people are like—are like whoever did this to you. I know that you'll...that you will find a better place.”

She spoke with sudden conviction and Amelia looked at her hopefully.

“The FBI agents can help you, Amelia,” Clara said.

“A little late,” Amelia murmured. “I just had to have that story. Oh, and I had to beat Natalie out here! I never even knew that he'd gotten to her first. How—is there no security at that hotel?”

Clara assumed that because the Nordic Lights Hotel was small and privately owned, it didn't have the security that might be found at a larger establishment. Then again, there had been horror stories about events in larger hotels, too.

“Maybe there is security at the hotel. That's why you need to speak with the FBI members, Amelia. They can answer questions like that.”

Clara heard a soft tapping at her door—real this time, and not an echo of a policeman drumming his fingers on the table.

She stood to answer it.

Amelia looked up in alarm—and disappeared as if she'd never been there.

Maybe she hadn't been. Maybe the stress...

No. Thor had seen her, too.

Clara walked over and swung her door open. Marc Kimball was there, smiling at her. “We were about to have an afternoon snack and fine sherry, Miss Avery. Would you be so good as to join us?”

It was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do.

“I...”

“Yes, of course, join us, please!” he said. “I'd be so grateful.”

She lowered her head, trying to think of a good excuse, unable to do so. She heard the front door of the lodge open.

“Miss Avery?” It was Mike Aklaq, back from the docks and whatever else he'd been doing.

“Here!” she called.

A look of annoyance crossed over Kimball's face.

Clara smiled. “I'm here, Agent Aklaq!” She slipped past Kimball and looked back into her room, just briefly. But she was sure she saw a slight indentation in the bed where Amelia had been sitting.

And yet, as Clara hurried down the hallway, she couldn't help but wonder if she was suffering from whiteout hysteria on the island, along with a massive dose of stress.

* * *

“They end here,” Thor told Jackson.

He was off his snowmobile and had been since they'd reached the tree line.

It had been easy enough to follow the tracks in the light powdery snow—harder once they reached the massive pines and the ground became a wet bed of earth, snow and pine carpeting.

Thor hunched down, studying the tracks and the broken branches and needles.

He'd seen prints; he'd seen broken, dislodged branches. He hadn't seen any other indication that a bear had come this way—not a speck of fur, not a scratch on a tree, not so much as the whiff of a scent of a creature marking territory.

Jackson came carefully behind him.

“Well?” Jackson asked.

“Snowshoes, I think. Custom snowshoes. Short and broad prints—hard to tell them from the tracks of a real bear, unless you find fur or droppings. Look ahead—you can see where the pine needles are cracked. Not enough to catch something like an actual footprint, but whoever came here tossed the ‘bear' feet, and started through the trees. It's really dense here. I know the state police were through this area yesterday, but we're going to have to get them back. Somewhere on this island, we'll either find someone or find proof that someone was here.”

“You're sure?” Jackson asked.

Thor nodded gravely.

“You've spent a lot of time out here, on this island?” Jackson asked him.

“When I was a kid, there were absentee owners who weren't so rich,” Thor told Jackson. “The Mansion existed, but it wasn't like it is now and it wasn't called the Mansion. The Alaska Hut existed, too—again, not as is it now, but just as a big log cabin with small rooms to allow for heat circulation. We used to come out here without telling our parents. The island was really taboo for kids growing up here—too many places where someone could get lost or hurt.”

“Bears?” Jackson asked.

Thor paused and looked back at his old partner, grinning. “Enough for me to know that a bear didn't get to the forest and stop being a bear.”

“Sorry,” Jackson said. “I have to admit, in all my years, I never had to wonder if it was a man or a bear that had run through the wilderness.”

“What I'm trying to figure out is how this guy got into the mainland hotel, killed Natalie—decapitated her—walked out without being seen, and came out here to the island,” he said.

“The cops on the mainland are looking all over for anyone with a boat—anyone who could have gotten the killer over here. So far, nothing. And the Coast Guard has skirted the place. If there is a boat here somewhere, it's incredibly well hidden,” Jackson said.

“Yeah.”

“Two separate killers?”

“That's a terrifying thought.”

“And what was their motive?” Jackson murmured. “The main office has been scouring the records for anyone who had a beef with the company.”

“I hope they find something,” Thor said. “That seems the logical conclusion here—that the producers ‘got' the wrong person with their
Gotcha
show.”

“And still...” Jackson said.

And still, neither of them could forget that Tate Morley had escaped from prison.

Thor kept walking carefully through the pines, avoiding the broken areas, studying the trees. As they moved deeper into the woods, the world darkened; not even the bright Alaska summer sun could penetrate through the thickness of the pines and brush.

He stopped suddenly, seeing a patch of light ahead. It looked as if the pines were just as dense as ever, but there had to be something different for the sun to be breaking through.

He had to crawl over fallen branches and weave his way along.

And then, at last, deep in an area that appeared to be impenetrable, he saw the break—the place where the sun was shining through.

Taking even greater care, he squeezed between two tree branches. And there, he found it, a pool of dark liquid that had melted the snow beneath it and now darkened the carpet of earth and pine it covered.