“Trust me, it’s not!”
One of the police officers called to the hospital was approaching him quickly. Thor turned to him.
“We’ve found your sister’s car,” he said.
“Where? Did they find Clara and Emmy?”
“No, but we found one of the charter-boat captains who saw them—they were headed out to Black Bear Island.”
* * *
It was strange to be back in the Mansion; Clara could remember the first time she’d seen it—covered in fake body parts and blood—and the second time, working with the film crew to pick up the fabricated gore.
She didn’t like it—the house might have been beautiful, but there was no way she would ever feel comfortable here. While she idly paced the living room, waiting for Emmy, she remembered the magnificent moose she had seen on the island.
But then she remembered running and running in terror.
Seeing Amelia Carson—dead in the snow.
And she remembered Thor, catching her, tackling her down to the ground while she beat furiously at him, trying to fight him off until she’d believed at last that he was with the FBI.
Alaska was home to Thor.
And she still loved Alaska.
She just didn’t think that she’d want to return to Black Bear Island again.
“Emmy, are you about ready? Did you say that we had to get some things at the Alaska Hut?” she called.
At her angle, she could see all the way up the stairway, not that Emmy knew that.
And there was Emmy—weak, terrified Emmy—quickly sliding bullets into a gun in the upstairs hallway. And she had a knife tethered to her jeans.
To Clara’s self-disgust, she stared at the woman several seconds in confusion. And then, little things suddenly seemed to make sense to her.
Marc Kimball looking like hell.
Marc Kimball never saying a word.
Marc Kimball, so close to Emmy she believed that he was holding the woman at knifepoint...
When it had been the other way around.
“Be right there!” Emmy called out.
Clara made her way quickly to the door. To her vast dismay, she realized that it was locked.
Locked from inside. Locked with a key.
Who knew the island? Who had watched the press on Tate Morley, fallen in love with a serial killer? Who would have planned it all for him? Gotten him everything he had needed, and even with a plan for herself if things had started to go badly? Yes! It was all right there—use Marc Kimball, a man she hated! A man who had abused her...
Morley would have used her, with gentle words and encouragement, but now...
Gunfire suddenly exploded; Emmy’s bullet thudded into the front door.
Clara made a flying leap and threw herself from the entry to the living room and behind a sofa. She could hear Emmy coming down the stairs.
She had six shots.
Wait! What made Clara think the woman had six shots? She must have watched too many old Westerns. Guns could have all number of bullets in them now...
But, it was a self-loader. One of the pistols that people kept because the beloved wildlife could still be dangerous. She was pretty sure that most had six rounds and one in the chamber. Or something like that!
What difference did it make if one bullet found home?
What the hell to do?
“Aw, come on, Clara—we can play hide-and-seek all you like. You’re so predictable, though. Self-sacrifice! How could you watch me being tortured—how could precious Clara Avery not do the right thing? What you saw was a vicious Kimball making me speak for him. Me! Claiming he had a knife on me, while I had a blade right there against his ribs. I told him he was a dead man if he didn’t play along perfectly, and—coward that the bastard was—he wasn’t about to take a chance. Funny, because he had such a thing for you, but, hey, the poor sucker wanted to live and so he did as I commanded him. Kimball! Oh, that was priceless. He was so scared. The saddest thing is that he believed that I might let him live. He walked, walked the way I said, shut up the way I said—and would have done whirly-jigs if I had said. Nice, after the way he treated me. Maybe I’ve done the world a favor. The money goes back to his first wife. She’s a decent sort—she was kind to me.” Emmy paused to giggle. “Lawyers and the like will be descending here soon—then all will be hell. But, of course, they’ll know by then that it isn’t over. I’ll shoot myself somewhere nonlethal, of course. And I’ll cast the blame on another mysterious man!”
Emmy was coming down the stairs. Clara looked desperately around the room. Emmy spoke her thoughts almost before she could think them.
“Oh, Clara! On the Fate, I had to work with a knife—better than strangling, that’s what I say. But a gun is better than anything. Stay at a distance. Bang, bang. Tate needed it to be personal. He had to feel the life go out of someone. That was all well and good for him—he was a medium size, yes, but oh! His hands—you wouldn’t have believed the feel of his hands!”
She was coming closer. A small statuette of an old totem pole was on the coffee table nearest Clara; she picked it up and tossed it across the room, in the direction of the door to the kitchen.
As she’d hoped, Emmy immediately fired, thinking it was Clara in the kitchen, not having seen her jump behind the couch. One bullet, two, three. Clara winced at each heavy sound as the bullets crashed into wood.
Emmy moved toward the dining room. “Clara, come on out, wherever you are. Here’s the thing. You were key in taking away the man I loved—so, now, you really have to die. Oh, yeah, and you think you’re an actress? Wait until you see the performance they’re going to get when they find you dead in the snow and me mortally injured! Come on, say something, Clara! Your guy killed Tate—killed him in cold blood! He has to see you killed the same way.” Emmy paused to giggle again. “Cold—get it? I mean, there’s not much other way your blood could be, huh, out here.”
Clara tried to stay calm, tried to assess her situation. She wasn’t getting out the front door; Emmy had the key.
There was the side door—out of the kitchen. But she’d just sent Emmy in that direction.
She suddenly wished that the bloody props remained—there would have been lots of body parts to throw Emmy’s way.
If she didn’t think fast, she’d soon be body parts herself...
A whisper suddenly sounded against Clara’s ear; she was so startled she nearly cried out.
Thankfully, she didn’t. The whisperer was Amelia.
“I knew something wasn’t right. I mean, Kimball was a strange man, but, man...the way they were walking, all bundled together. And her doing the talking!” Amelia went on.
She was hunched down by Clara, behind the sofa. Hiding, as if Emmy could see her, too.
“But, watch this, Clara. I’m getting good!”
Amelia Carson headed toward the stairway. She slammed her hand and her side against the wall.
And she made a sound—a soft sound.
“Ah, Clara, upstairs?” Emmy called out, her tone aggravated. “You know, it’s not that you’re a heavy cow or anything, but I’m a little thing. Dragging you down those stairs again—it’s not going to be easy. You should show yourself. You don’t want me pissed off at you—you really don’t. Because I can shoot you in the jaw first, maybe knock off an elbow. Knees are supposed to be especially painful.”
Clara stayed perfectly still and stared up at Amelia. Amelia looked back at her and smiled proudly. Clara nodded her appreciation.
Emmy headed for the stairs.
“Come out, Clara.”
When she reached the point on the stairs where Amelia was standing, she paused for a second. Amelia had a look of absolute loathing and disgust on her face. She drew back a hand and slapped Emmy.
Of
course, her hand just went through Emmy’s face.
But it must have done something. Because Emmy stood there for just a moment; she sucked in her breath.
But then she said softly, “Is that you, Tate, my love? Is that you? I’ll finish what you started. I swear, so help me God, I will finish for you, before I lie beside you in eternity!”
“In hell!” Amelia muttered bitterly.
Emmy couldn’t hear or see her. But, once again, she felt something. She shivered; the gun wavered slightly in her hands.
Amelia ran on up ahead. In the upstairs hallway, she managed to make another sound.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Emmy called. She continued up the stairs.
Clara waited; she rose and nearly flew across the room for the kitchen—and the door from which she had once left the Mansion before...
To run across the snow for her life.
* * *
Thor arrived at Black Bear Island alone—and not alone.
He had Boris and Natasha.
Jackson and Mike would be heading out as soon as possible, but he couldn’t wait for them. Enfield had wanted to arrange police and Coast Guard assistance—Thor had pretended they’d lost the connection.
He couldn’t wait for anyone.
He’d snagged the first boat he could find; luckily, it was with someone he knew well, a weathered older man of Russian and Native American descent—as rugged, worn and hardy as the landscape itself. Thor didn’t have to say a lot to the man; he moved at the greatest possible speed as they made their way across.
Every minute of the ride was agony for Thor.
He’d quit trying Clara’s cell. She already had a dozen messages from him. If she had her phone, she’d call him back.
He tried to tell himself that Clara was fit—working the theater had kept her so. He realized that neither of them knew yet what each other’s daily routines were like, but he was pretty sure that she was young enough for roles that called for a certain physical prowess, and that she went to a gym on a regular basis. He thought about her when she was at his family compound, playing with the dogs, the laughter in her eyes when she looked up at him with delight. He didn’t know that much about her.
He knew, however, that she meant everything to him now.
Boris and Natasha jumped onto the dock before the boat was even tied; Thor didn’t wait, either. He thanked the man who had brought him across, overpaid him.
And ran, the dogs moving ahead of him.
He didn’t have keys for any of the snowmobiles; he had to run the distance. But he kept pace with Boris and Natasha, glad the snow was no deeper than a few inches.
He felt his lungs burning but that didn’t slow him.
He should have known! Should have known when he talked with Emmy that she had stayed with Kimball because she needed the job to carry out the plan—and that her hatred for him had grown and grown. She was a prime target for a man like Tate Morley. A young woman who was never appreciated by anyone else, who desperately needed love. She would have had all the possible business resources to begin and carry on a correspondence with Tate Morley in prison—scrambled emails, throwaway cash phones and letters...all those coded letters the Bureau had combed through. From so many maniacs corresponding with a killer—Jane Doe or Becca Marle among them and also Marc Kimball...but really, Emmy Vincenzo. As long as she toed the line, Kimball wouldn’t have questioned business expenses; he had enough correspondence himself.
All carried out by his assistant.
He doubted that Emmy had actually committed the murders; she had merely made the arrangements. Maybe she’d fallen in love with him, watching his trial, reading about him, seeing him on television. She had set everything in motion for him to arrive; she had arranged for warm clothing and tools and a place to stay. She’d known timing; she’d known all about the reality show.
And she’d known Black Bear Island.
He should have seen it!
She had killed Kimball, right when help had come. Of course, even the Bureau’s top psychologists would have thought that a normal reaction. Bullets had flown; the moments were filled with high anxiety. She had been terrified; she’d already been beaten and abused.
But he should have seen it.
Running, running, running...they reached the Mansion.
“Boris, Natasha! Secret!” he said.
The dogs crouched low and stayed behind him as they approached the house.
The front door was open; he carefully walked in. He knew almost instantly that no one was there; the house had a feel—cavernous and empty.
“Boris, Natasha—search!” he told them. He said the last with pain.
What if Clara was here? What if she was already...
He wouldn’t say it; he wouldn’t think it.
The dogs ran up the stairs and throughout the house; Thor quickly checked the downstairs rooms. In the kitchen, he saw the open door there.
Clara had found her way out.
She was alive, and she was out there.
* * *
Clara ran...
And ran.
She was afraid to look back and she didn’t do so for the longest time.
Emmy was far shorter than she was—and Clara was a good runner.
But while she could outrun Emmy, she couldn’t outrun a bullet, so she had to dodge her way across the terrain as she headed for the Alaska Hut.
She’d done so once before, run in sheer terror for her life. And now she was doing it again, her footsteps crunching in the snow, her breath a billow before her, body on fire against the cold that curled around her.
She heard a shot; she plowed ahead, leaping over a snowbank, then slammed down to the earth, her heart thundering. She held still for a split second and looked back. The shot had been wide. She found herself counting bullets...
Why? Who the hell knew what kind of a gun Emmy had?
Looking back, she could see that the girl was still far away. And she was looking for her now—she didn’t see her ahead. Emmy might have mapped the island and seen to it that Tate Morley had everything he needed here, but she didn’t seem to be much of a tracker. She wasn’t looking for footprints—she was staring across the distance.
She was halfway, Clara thought. Halfway to the Alaska Hut, where she’d find Justin and Magda. They would help her...they would let her in.
Justin would have a method of defense.
She had to get there; she had to reach it. But, as soon as she rose...
She heard another shot; had Emmy seen her? She crept along, facedown in the snow.
She lifted her head and peered into the distance; Emmy had paused. She seemed to be studying the gun. Clara decided that she had to take the time and run again.
Had the gun jammed? Pray God!
Clara stood and she began to run and run...
The Alaska Hut was just ahead of her.
She was suddenly aware of barking and baying...
Dogs!
“Clara!”
She turned around. Now Emmy was looking backward—looking at the two large huskies bounding at her. Clara could hear someone shouting; she heard a gun go off...
Suddenly, she was running in reverse.
Thor was there; his FBI Glock aimed at Emmy as the dogs raced up to her, barking a warning.
But Emmy raised her gun anyway.
She wasn’t going to shoot; she was going to slam it down on Natasha’s head.
Clara was amazed by her own renewed burst of speed.
Emmy never had a chance to raise the gun against Clara. Clara landed on her in a fury. Natasha went for the woman’s wrist. Emmy let out a scream and released the gun.
And then Thor was there, pulling Clara up against him, recit
ing something he’d been taught by the FBI to Emmy, who just lay on her back in the snow.
“Shoot me!” Emmy pleaded. “Shoot me—let me be with him!”
They heard another voice. “Shoot her! Shoot the stupid, wretched little bitch!”
It was Amelia Carson, standing there in the snow. The breeze seemed to move her clothing and her hair. She looked so beautiful and so sad.
“Living is the most horrible punishment for her,” Thor said softly.
Boris and Natasha let out their husky howls.
Clara sank down to her knees in the snow. She simply couldn’t stand anymore.
Epilogue
Clara finished her goodbye song to Larry Hepburn. She was gratified that there was a beat after the song ended when no one moved.
She was offstage and could smile when she heard a sniffle from the audience.
Nothing like it.
Well, and then the thunderous applause that followed.
There were another three to four minutes until the play ended; she stood in the wings waiting for the curtain call.
As she did, she thought she heard another sniff—right by her side.
“That was beautiful. Really beautiful,” Amelia Carson told her. Clara could feel the softness of the ghost’s touch on her shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“I mean,” Amelia said, “everyone felt it. The love. The sadness.” Amelia was silent a minute. “No one really loved me. I guess my own fault. I wasn’t looking for love—I wanted to be famous. World famous!”
“I’m sure you were loved.”
“Not like that. Not like you’re loved,” Amelia said, and before she could sound too morose, she quickly added, “not that your kindly nature didn’t almost get you killed—twice!”
“Ah, but you helped save me, you know.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
Clara nodded. “Amelia, I know you’re loved. You have family, gone before you. I know they loved you. And Natalie Fontaine—you two were close, great friends!”
“I have a feeling that I have to leave, and I’m so afraid,” Amelia said. “Talking to you...it’s getting harder and harder. And I feel that I’m fading, that I should be turning... Is all that stuff about walking into the light true?” Amelia asked hopefully.