Deadly Fate (26 page)

“Mr. Kimball, I'm expecting that my coworker will back with answers in a few hours. Hopefully, Miss Marle was angry—staged the scene and perhaps even panicked about our reactions. If not—someone was in the room with her. Someone has her now. And we'll hope for the best. My next step is to see that you're all brought in for questioning. We can hold each or any of you for up to twenty-four hours for questioning before charging you—more, under certain circumstances, if necessary. Mr. Kimball, I'm sure you're not accustomed to the living facilities provided at our establishments.”

“There just needs to be an end to this!” Kimball muttered.

“Yes,” Jackson agreed.

“Maybe I can help with breakfast,” Clara said. She stood quickly.

“I have to pee,” Kimball muttered. “You going to hold my hand while I go, Special Agent Crow?”

“Please, Mr. Kimball, feel free to use the facilities as needed,” Jackson said. “We will, of course, be just outside the door.”

Clara fled to the kitchen.

It was sad to leave the one group for the other. The police officer stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Magda was at the stove, working on a large batch of eggs.

Justin manned the toaster.

“Can I do anything?” Clara offered.

“Grab some table settings,” Magda said.

“She's a guest,” Justin said.

“No guests no more—just all of us in a cage,” Magda said. “Go ahead, Miss Avery. There's a pack of us here. Don't mind you helping out.”

Clara nodded and made a quick count. Jackson, Emmy, Kimball, Tommy and Nate. She knew that Magda and Justin wouldn't sit at the table. Nor would the police officer on duty eat with them. The most any of the police had taken while on duty was a cup of coffee.

She was setting the plates on the table when she heard a commotion in the living room; moving out there, she saw that the forensic team had arrived—along with another officer. They all had little to say; they headed straight for the room that had been Becca's—and the scene that had been created there.

Jackson had apparently just spoken with them; he beckoned to Clara to follow him.

They went into the office.

“I've got Angela online,” Jackson told her. “I got a message from her. I thought you might want to be with me for this.”

Clara hurried over to the computer screen. “Thank you!” she told Jackson.

He reached over her, keying in what was needed; Angela's face appeared.

She looked tired; she had probably been up as long, or longer, than any of them. She offered Clara a nod and said, “I want you know that I've reached Thor. He's on police radio and I've gotten through to him fine.”

“Okay, why? What's happened?” Clara asked, looking from the screen to Jackson.

“We traced some of the letters at last. There are no cameras at the mailbox facility where the bulk of letters—between Tate Morley and who we believe to be his accomplice—were going. But our agents there found a survivalist who takes pictures of anyone using the same mail company. A kook, I'm assuming, or, who knows? Maybe they believe Big Brother should be watching. I'm amazed we got anything, but...we sent someone persuasive. No corkscrews—just a lot of charm,” Angela said. “Clara, Tate Morley has been carrying on a letter correspondence—romantic correspondence—with Becca Marle. She called herself Jane. They've been exchanging letters for more than a year.”

It took Clara a moment to speak. “Was that research? Was she hoping to start her own reality show? Or—was she crazy? One of those women smitten with a killer?”

“We don't know her thinking on the matter,” Angela said. “She wrote to other convicted killers, so maybe it was research. But, her most ardent letters were to Tate Morley, so...he was either her main focus of research or...or the one who responded to her best. And she is an accomplice.”

Clara digested the information. “Then Becca set up the room herself. And she's gone to meet up with him?”

“Possibly,” Angela said. “It's hard to tell. We found other letters to him, and email—it truly is frightening to see how some men and women become obsessed with such killers. Some because they believe they can ‘fix' them, and some because they're suffering some kind of mental disease themselves and admire the work of serial killers. Law enforcement is often after people like that,” Angela added softly.

Clara swallowed. Thor was an agent, a representative of the law. He put his life in danger every day. He had chosen to do so. He was very good at what he did. But now, Tate Morley himself might well be out there, a trap set, along with Becca! And, apparently, both were damned good at...killing. If, of course, Becca was his accomplice.

“They know this, right? You said that Thor and Mike and the other police and agents...they all know this?”

“They know,” Angela assured her. “But remember, too, that alone would never stand up in a court of law. We know that she's been corresponding with him, but he corresponded with others, as well. Still, with this information, we're going to process the room at the Alaska Hut, and then let you and Tommy and Nate leave the island. We'll get you on the
Fate
with the rest of your coworkers.”

“I see,” Clara murmured.

“Jackson will go with you, and I'm heading out either this afternoon or tomorrow myself.”

“Angela, that's great!” Clara said. “I mean, it's not great that the case is so bad, just that...” Just that there was nothing like having another agent close to her—a woman she knew, liked and trusted completely.

“I passed the academy, too, you know,” Angela said, smiling. “I've always wanted to come to Alaska.” She was silent and looked toward Jackson. “And I'll be glad to see this man put away—for good this time.”

Tate Morley's victims had haunted both of the men who had pursued him.

Clara understood; Angela needed to be here.

“What are they saying to the others?” Clara asked. “I think Kimball will feel justified. Tommy and Nate won't accept it easily.”

“We're not making this common knowledge. They're still looking for Becca. We're just saying that the decision has been made to bring all visitors back to the mainland. That's our official line for the moment,” Jackson said. “Enfield is assigning a man to stay here on the island. If we don't have anything with which to charge Kimball, he and Emmy will soon be free to return to New York or go wherever Kimball wants to be. And, as far as Tommy and Nate go...” He shrugged. “We don't have anything on them, either. You're all right with everything?”

Clara scarcely remembered why she was in Alaska...what she did for a living. She'd almost forgotten that next week, she was supposed to be taking part in
Annabelle Lee
, and that she loved what she did and the people with whom she worked.

She nodded at Jackson. Yes, she was ready to board the
Fate
. And sail far away from the cold and the fear and the...death.

If only she could.

She managed a smile for Jackson. “With any luck,” she murmured, “we'll actually do this show.” She nodded. “And Angela is coming.”

“She's always wanted to see Alaska,” Jackson said. “I don't actually think that she meant like this.”

* * *

Thor had law enforcement members assigned to specific areas across the island.

Everyone had been advised that they had connected Becca Marle to Tate Morley. Nothing had proved yet that she was involved in the killings, but her behavior at the Alaska Hut certainly made her suspect.

Thor had chosen the back woods—leading out from the rear of the Alaska Hut and down toward a glacial peak above a group of caverns—for himself and Mike. A number of people had been thirty to fifty feet away at all times, but if Becca had done the work herself—or been instantly incapacitated—it was understandable that nobody had seen anything.

But no one could have passed the front of the Alaska Hut. There was a clearing before the woods; even if a police officer had done some blinking, it would have been nearly impossible for someone to have gone that way undetected.

Of course, that person might have skirted around the woods from the back and gotten just about anywhere. But Thor didn't think so. Becca couldn't know the island that well, and if someone was dragging along her lifeless body, they just couldn't have moved that quickly.

“Being pissed off at Kimball—I can see that,” Mike commented as they moved into a section of the woods. “I can see her wanting to hurt him, maybe even proving what they can do. I don't know. I just didn't see the woman as a killer.”

“Did you see her carrying on a letter romance with a serial killer?”

Mike shrugged. “Well, frankly, I don't see anyone doing that. But people do.”

They'd moved deep into a pine forest. Mike paused, taking a breath, pointing to a tree. “Grizzly territory,” he noted.

Slash marks had torn away the bark. Great.

Thor nodded. “Yeah. Let's not tick off any grizzlies, huh?”

“I'm with you, my friend.”

They both stood still for a moment. Looking high above the trees, Thor saw circling vultures. He pointed them out to Mike.

“Aw, crap,” Mike said.

They began to stride in their direction and found a break in the trees.

And there she was.

Birds were flocking around the corpse. A timber wolf was moving in.

Mike reached for his gun and fired a shot into the air. The birds and the wolf moved off.

“I guess she wasn't a killer herself,” Mike said.

“If...”

“If?” Mike asked.

“If that is Becca Marle.”

Thor walked toward the corpse. He winced as he hunkered down, and he thought about the display in the woman's bedroom at the Alaska Hut.

He knew that Clara had been shocked by what she had seen. It had been hard for him to convince her that what she saw was a display and not real. But he'd known in an instant. He was far too familiar with the tinny scent of real blood. And here, in the woods, with the buzz of flies...

With the work of buzzards and insects and hungry wolves. Yes. The Alaskan wilderness creatures had been at the corpse.

But...

The killer had meant to display it...

Just like the tableau in Becca's room at the Alaska Hut.

She lay on her one side, an elbow up, her face gone. Flesh had been stripped off her naked thighs and much of her body. Lumps...her organs and breasts...had been laid strategically around her, except that now...

Some parts had already been dragged away, a meal for hungry carnivores.

One daring and hungry blackbird remained, pecking at a bloody mound.

“Holy Christ!” Mike said, crossing himself.

The killer had found a “Ripper” victim.

This time, he'd been able to carry through with the deed.

14

“Kiss me one last time...

A whisper of memory

To the sweetness of the past

Love, my darling, is all that can last

Kiss me one last time...

I'm that whisper of memory

That rustle in the trees

Love, my darling, is all that can last

Kiss me in your heart

Locked away in the past

Where I shall be...

Oh, there in the stars, twinkling by night

Beautiful, bright, and there...in your heart.”

C
lara finished her last love song as the ghost of Annabelle Lee; she hovered where she stood, as directed, and then made her way fluidly and swiftly to where Larry Hepburn—playing Annabelle's widowed husband—stood waiting. She brushed her fingers against his cheek, placed a kiss like air on his lips, and turned and floated from the stage. She smiled as she exited stage left; Larry called out, reached out, and then fell upon his knees and began the song that would bring his new wife into his arms. It really was a beautiful finale.

Clara hurried off the stage, passing Connie Shaw, who gave her hand a squeeze and whispered, “Heartbreaking!”

The director—Tandy Larson, with whom Clara had worked before—would have a few notes for her, but she knew that she could sneak down to the audience where Jackson had been watching.

It had been nice to be greeted with an enormous wave of enthusiasm when she had arrived at the ship that afternoon; she'd felt almost like a prodigal daughter, as if the fatted calf would be slain for her. She quickly found out it was because a full rehearsal had been planned onstage that afternoon—and her understudy had realized, even as the ship sat at dock, that she wouldn't be able to sail.

She'd gotten horribly seasick. Clara had been needed.

Of course, it was still nice to be needed. And it was wonderful, for the moment, to concentrate on the show, on music...movement, direction. To interact with an ensemble cast she loved.

Connie Shaw was doing well. She'd hugged Clara as if they'd known one another forever when Clara had arrived to take up residence in her cabin on the ship.

She was very grateful to be alive; worried that the killer had yet to be caught.

Of course, they were all worried. And they would remain that way. That, of course, hadn't kept Ralph, Simon and Larry from quizzing her about Thor Erikson and teasing her. She had merely shaken her head at their antics.

Clara paused on her way to the backseats of the ship's large theater, turning to observe as Larry and Connie Shaw finished up the play in one another's arms.

It was a good production, she thought. Very charming, with songs that were not just right for the show, but catchy, as well. And the ending was bittersweet; it was about the memories of love that made it possible to love again.

She hurried to the back of the theater as the others came from the backstage areas to chat and applaud one another's performances, and Tandy called for a break before notes.

She noted the beauty of the theater. By the early 2000s, when Celtic American had purchased the
Fate
, the ship had been all but abandoned and rusting in a shipyard in Liverpool. But she'd been painstakingly restored. The theater now had elegant balconies draped in velvet; the stage itself had been revamped for excellent lighting and acoustics. The antechamber to the theater was decked out with art nouveau and art deco posters, a handsome cherrywood bar and antique tables. The final evening of each voyage offered the Broadway-quality show and a true experience for those who had sailed.

Jackson stood as she neared him, clapping. “That last song...really beautiful,” he told her. “You're going to create a few damp eyes out there when you perform it for your audience.”

He spoke lightly—saying the right things, of course. But she could see that he was grim.

And she knew.

“Jackson, you know something.”

He didn't lie to her. “We don't think that Becca Marle did that setup in the room herself. They think that they've found her.”

“They think?” Clara asked.

“Where she was left...in the condition she was left...well, the ME has her now.”

Clara sank into one of the theater seats.

And Jackson nodded. “Thor has gotten back and talked to Misty, Tommy and Nate. Apparently, they knew she was corresponding with not just one convicted criminal—she was communicating with several of them.”

“Oh, no. Because they were planning some kind of show—
using convicted killers
?”
Clara asked him. “Oh, God, no.”

He nodded. “So, we're not really sure what to think. Assuming that the corpse is Becca, even if she wasn't in on the killings, we believe that she did know about Tate Morley. And she kept her mouth shut—even after Natalie and Amelia were murdered—because she was afraid she might have been the one to bring it on. Except that she had been careful, in her mind, at least. She'd always called herself Jane when she was writing to the men she was studying.”

“So. No closer,” she murmured.

“No, we are closer. Every time something happens...”

“We're down a suspect,” she said bleakly.

“But, there's more that we know,” Jackson told her. He offered her a tight smile. “We've been working on the logistics of it all, the problem being, of course, that the only time we know exactly where Tate Morley was is the hours before Natalie Fontaine was killed. We believe he committed that murder—we also believe that he could have done so in time to reach the island and kill Amelia. But as far as being on the mainland again to try and kill Connie Shaw...we're not sure.”

Jackson was thoughtful. “We think he had inside help. We think that someone has been involved, getting him messages somehow, letting him know what law enforcement has been doing and thinking—and helping him, like last night. Someone who knew all about the Alaska Hut and Wickedly Weird Productions. We thought the prison letters were our best clue, and still think they are. But if we are talking about someone being involved, it would have to be the surviving members of the Wickedly Weird staff—Misty Blaine, Tommy Marchant or Nate Mahoney—or, someone directly involved with the island, and that would mean Justin or Magda Crowley, or Marc Kimball himself, or even his assistant.” Jackson paused, indicating the stage. “I think you're being summoned.”

She was. She hurried down to the stage, pulling out her script, ready to take her notes. Tandy had a few blocking changes for her and little else.

The director—a wonderful woman with crisp iron-gray hair, bright blue eyes and slim, energetic form, smiled at her, shaking her head. “You're doing fabulously as a ghost! Just like someone who loved life, suddenly lost it and grows through the show to deal with her own death. And realizes that she wants the ones she loved so much to move on as well and be happy. It's almost as if you had some kind of experience in the field! I love it, Clara!”

Clara smiled weakly.

She'd had some insight into the subject matter, yes.

Which made her wonder just where Amelia Carson had gotten to. She didn't know if she wished that she would—or wouldn't—make an appearance on the
Fate.

* * *

The Alaska State Troopers, along with a group of young agents—native Alaskans who knew the area—arrived on Black Bear Island.

It was an impressive troop of men and women, and Thor was well aware that with their expertise and their numbers, they far outweighed anything that he and Mike could do alone. And still, he and Mike joined in the intense search on the island. Hours went by; units of men combed the forests, the shoreline, the cliffs, the caverns—and the Alaska Hut.

Nothing.

Since they'd first seen the image from the lobby of the Nordic Lights Hotel of the man who had appeared to be Tate Morley, APBs had been out on the man. Enfield had wanted to play it safe, not certain that they needed to terrify an entire community—despite the fact that they were already terrified due to the murders—when Thor had first identified the man. Now, word that the escaped serial killer was believed to be in Alaska was out in every form of available media.

The ME had taken the body. The only thing recognizable about the dead woman for an on-site identification might be the clothing she was wearing; Nate Mahoney or Tommy Marchant might be called upon while they awaited positive forensic results. Or, it was possible that Misty could help—but Misty had never come to the island. She remained holed up in her hotel room, terrified. While the circumstances dictated that the body did belong to Becca, it was impossible for them to be certain. There just wasn't any face left and the body...well, she'd lain out in the open for many hours. There wasn't enough left of that, either—that hadn't been ripped up by the killer, or consumed or mauled by beasts.

By the time he and Mike returned to the Alaska Hut, the others were gone.

Except for Magda and Justin Crowley.

Thor had known that Nate and Tommy were leaving; they'd return to the Nordic Lights Hotel for the time being.

Becca's room was still designated a crime scene and a police officer still looked dutifully over it. The door was open—the window was locked.

Thor had also known that Jackson was going to see to it that Clara arrived safely back at the port at Seward, and aboard the
Fate.
He'd been in constant Wi-Fi contact with Jackson, who'd assured him all was well and that a rehearsal was in full swing.

What he hadn't known was that Marc Kimball and his little Emmy were leaving, as well; according to Magda, Kimball never told her what he was doing until he did it, but he'd had a private launch take him and Emmy back to Seward. Thor had assumed Kimball would still be on the island, watched by the police—and far from Clara Avery and the others.

Thor didn't like it that Kimball had disappeared.

“Important man, you know,” Magda told him, removing glasses from the dishwasher. “He says so himself,” she added. Magda wasn't much on betraying emotion, but there was definitely a dry note in her voice. “He said you can't trust the police or the agents—he's safest back in the city. Seems he tried to leave altogether, but as important as he is, he's been asked to stay for the moment. Your boss—some guy named Enfield—saw to it that he can't fly his plane out.”

Thor nodded, lowering his head to hide a smile. Enfield was a good man; he didn't give a damn if you were rich or poor—an investigation was an investigation.

“Well, if no one knows where he is, he could head to Anchorage and get on a commercial flight.”

Magda sniffed. “That man on a commercial flight—they don't make a class of flying that's ‘first' enough for him.”

“So, where do you think he went?”

Magda paused in her task and turned around to look at Thor. “I have no idea. The man tells us what he wants when he wants it. Most of the time, we don't hear a word from him. When he bought the place, he gave us explicit instructions on what kind of water he drinks—some brand-label stuff, and it's no better than what we use!—and how he likes his bed made, all kinds of little things. Never to call him direct... We're servants, Special Agent Erikson, and that's it.”

“Sounds like a hard man to work for,” Thor said.

Magda shrugged. “He's a pompous bastard, is what he is. But there's one good thing about him.”

“What's that?”

“He's almost never here. Justin and me, we put up with him for about a month a year, altogether. We call the cops on kids maybe three or four times a year. Other than that, we live in heaven. Crystal pure water, lots of wildlife...and a quick ride over to Seward when we need to shop or feel the whim for a dinner out or a movie...not many of those I want to see these days! Salmon jumping...whales here and there...a moose at my window now and then. I love my life, sir, that I do. And if it comes with a pompous ass for a few days here and there, so be it.”

Thor nodded. “Well, then, let me thank you for all the meals here and all you've done for us and the people affected by this.” He paused and asked carefully, “You're not afraid of being out here now?” he asked. “Cops will certainly be around awhile longer, hunting, searching, but...”

“You might not have noticed something about me,” she said lightly.

“What's that?”

“I'm not exactly a young beauty. Of course, come to think of it...Becca Marle wasn't exactly a beauty. But, that Natalie Fontaine—she was an attractive woman. And Amelia...she was gorgeous. I still think it's the pretty, young ones that he's after. So it seems. Or, hell—those that make reality TV. Quite frankly, how anything you can just turn off could piss someone off so much, I don't know. But, hey, this guy is deranged, right?”

“I'm not a psychiatrist,” Thor told her, “but in my mind, yes, anyone who can do such a thing to another human being is seriously deranged.”

“And you know who this guy is, right? You'd think you'd just pick him up on the street,” Magda said, shaking her head. “The Coast Guard is patrolling, there are cops everywhere—you should have gotten him by now. I mean, where the hell has he been staying? Even such a guy has to eat, right? If he's on the island, why hasn't he been caught by now?”

Justin Crowley, lean and all-
American Gothic
, walked in as she spoke, a hard look on his face. “Magda, how can you ask such a thing?” He looked at Thor apologetically. “This is, in truth, the last frontier. I don't think that anyone has ever explored all the ragged edges, the caves, caverns—or even the forests.” He looked at Thor. “I've been around a fair amount now, but when I'm not with a cop looking for an obnoxious teen, I don't go far from where I should be,” he said grimly. “You've seen for yourself, Special Agent Erikson. Finding anything on this island...” He paused, shrugging. “Hell, Kimball owns it—and I doubt he knows that much about it.”