Deadly Fate. Heather Graham

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 dreamed 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,