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.”
Clara 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.”
How much did Kimball know about the island? Had he discovered some secret nook or cranny among the many caverns and caves carved out by ice that others had yet to discover?
Day had waned to evening; Thor was exhausted. He was suddenly determined to find out exactly where Kimball had gone. He reminded himself that he couldn’t harbor suspicions on the man because he outright disliked him.
But logically, Kimball stood in the line of possible Tate Morley accomplices.
And if they could get the accomplice, they could get the man.
He thanked Magda and turned away. Outside, he put a call through to Mike.
His partner would keep searching the island.
Thor was going to find Marc Kimball.
* * *
Clara lay down on her bed in her cabin—in what had once been the “Irish” section when the Fate had brought immigrants to America. She was tired, but wired. Jackson Crow had been set up in the cabin next to her and she’d join him in about an hour to have dinner with him and the cast. But she was in a restless mood.
Another woman was dead. Horribly. They believed two people were guilty; even if one person had done the killing, that person had help. Help that was close to home.
Would Thor come here tonight? Was there something between them? Would this all end when the killer was caught?
And most important, would the killer ever be apprehended?
Her cell phone began to ring—something that actually happened now that she was off the island!
Expecting Jackson or a friend—or even Thor—she answered it quickly.
For a moment, there was nothing. She wondered if her connections had gone on the fritz again.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Avery.”
“Yes, hello. Who is this?”
It was only then that a strange sense of dread settled over her.
“We haven’t met, formally. But I’ve seen you.”
; “Who is this?”
“I am God, I am the Devil. I am both rolled into one. In a past life, I was the Fairy Tale Killer. Now I see myself as the Media Monster. Some fool at a newspaper gave me that moniker. I suppose it’s as good as any.”
She sat there frozen for a second, wondering if it was real, trying to remember from crime shows what she should do.
Hang up?
Keep him on the line?
He kept talking; thank God—she didn’t need to think of her response.
“I don’t understand how they’re missing all this. Yes, it’s my purpose now to bring to light memories of some of the greatest murderers known to man.” He paused to laugh softly. “Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia killer and, yes, the Deadly Dancer.”
Keep him talking? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?
But for what? There was no recording device on her phone—it was just a cell phone.
“Frozen to silence, Miss Avery?” he asked.
“No,” she managed. “I was just thinking that they weren’t the greatest murderers of all time. You had many killers out there who committed more atrocious crimes—by number of victims, by ingenuity of form...” She was on her feet as she spoke, racing out to the hall. She tried to bang on Jackson’s door without the sound being heard over the phone.
“I haven’t even begun to leave behind my trail of victims,” he said, his voice low and chilling.
Jackson quickly threw his door open; looking at her, he apparently read her face and realized the killer—or someone purporting to be the killer—was on the line.
He drew her into his cabin, pulling out his own cell as he did so. He motioned to her to keep talking as he stepped aside and made a call. She could barely hear his voice. Tense, hushed, concise—she wasn’t sure who he had called or what he was asking for, but perhaps there was a way to follow through on the satellites being used by her phone.
“You’re also not unknown. You’re Tate Morley. You’ve been arrested and convicted and you’ll wind up dead or back in prison. You’re no great genius who has gotten away with his crimes,” she told him.