Heather Graham - Deadly Fate

“Miss Avery found the second body,” he said.

Jackson Crow looked at her. “Clara, Lord, how horrible. I’m sure you came up here to get away from what happened in the Caribbean.”

Clara shrugged uneasily, aware that Erikson was looking at her as if she somehow brought bad things with her wherever she went, like an unlucky penny.

Jackson Crow looked over at Thor Erikson. “What else did you need from her?”

“Anything, everything. When you met with Ms. Fontaine and Ms. Carson, Miss Avery, were they nervous in any way? Did they make any comments of being afraid of anyone in Alaska? Did they suggest that they had received any threats?”

Clara shook her head. “We met. Natalie made sure I was aware that Celtic American was wholeheartedly for the cast joining her show for the segment—it would be wonderful publicity for them. I’d already signed all kinds of waivers for the show.”

“Which, of course, you didn’t really read,” Thor said.

Clara stiffened but forced a pleasant smile. “Actually, I did read what I was signing. The problem is that you sign for the parent company, which meant they could use us in their silly Gotcha show, as well. I didn’t realize it at the time—hindsight is wonderful. Have you never thought that, Agent Erikson?”

“I don’t think there’s anything more that Clara can give you right now,” Jackson Crow said quietly. “Give her some time. If there is something, she’ll think of it. And she will help in any way she can.”

Erikson inclined his head.

“I need to speak with everyone involved,” Thor said. He looked at Clara. “So, your entire cast was on the Destiny with another serial killer.”

“Not the entire cast, no,” Clara said. We have one new member we haven’t worked with yet—she’s not on the island, though.

She really hated the third degree she was getting. She might have been brutally victimized here—and the man behaved as if he was suspicious of a group of actors escaping the horror of what had happened.

“For your information, Special Agent, Simon was nearly killed himself while trying to save a friend of ours from the Archangel. He’s still healing from a broken leg he received from a brush with the killer. He is certainly something of a hero. You have no right to treat us as if we’re involved in this horror in any way. Ask Jackson—he sailed on the Destiny.” Clara hoped her righteous indignation was cool and mature.

“Miss Avery,” Erikson said, “I’m sorry for what you endured—in the past, and today. The Archangel is dead. Whoever is responsible for this butchery might have just gotten started. I’m doing my best to see that the killer is caught before someone else is murdered. If that offends your sensibilities, I do apologize. But it doesn’t change the fact that you all are on an island where a woman has been cut in half. So, I will ask you all, bear with me.”

How the hell could she be so right and this man still be able to make her feel like a plaintive schoolgirl?

She thanked God for her theatrical training and didn’t react in the least.

“Shall I send someone else in?” she asked.

He nodded at her. “Yes, please.” He looked at her keenly, and she had the odd feeling that he was inwardly shaking his head at her behavior—despite the fact that Jackson Crow had spoken so well for her.

Well, you’re a jerk! she thought. Tackling me into the snow—twice!

“I will seriously try to help in any way that I can,” she said evenly.

“There’s always hope,” he said. “Miss Avery, you do realize there’s a key word in what I’m telling you,” Erikson said.

She remained still.

“Island,” he said. “Either the killer knows Alaska like the back of his hand, such that he knew how to get here, kill and leave—or he is still here, perhaps among you and your friends.”

3

A deeper chill settled over Clara. That was it—of course. They were all suspects.

No, no, no. These men couldn’t possibly believe that she—or Ralph, Simon or Larry!—could have had anything to do with these horrendous murders.

Jackson would quickly set him straight on that!

But what about the film crew? She couldn’t believe they had anything to do with the murders. They’d all been too shocked, stunned and horrified when they’d been told that it was not a prank any longer, that people were dead.

But it was an island. And the only people here were her cast mates and the crew working for the film company.

And, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Crowley. The caretakers for the estate.

Had they been interviewed? Clara hadn’t even seen them yet, though she knew that Larry had gone to find them and that they had been at the Alaska Hut.

But, no. Impossible. She’d met the couple. They were in their late sixties or early seventies. Mrs. Crowley was an attractive, slim, gray-haired woman who was, admittedly, a little odd. She was coldly—but perfectly—courteous while making sure people, even Natalie Fontaine, understood that even though she was there to oversee and facilitate, they needed to help themselves and be self-sufficient if they needed something.

Mr. Crowley matched his wife; he was still fit as a fiddle.

And strong.

Strong enough to wield whatever weapon it took to cut a woman in half?

No, Mr. Crowley was a little weird, but to her, at least, he had been as nice and cheerful as a department-store Santa.

She shook her head and let out a long breath.

Maybe she could be helpful—state some simple facts.

“It is an island, Agent. It’s also heavily forested and has a ragged coastline with caves beneath ice and snow. It has little peaks and valleys. I believe there are survival caches left in various places around the island. Someone could be hiding out in the trees. Someone in a small boat could make it from the mainland in about fifteen minutes—that’s about how long it took to get here when the captain the company hired brought me out. He left me at the dock, but there are a lot of shallows and little beachy areas around the southern and western sides. A person—or persons—could easily come and go from a zillion little hidden coves.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “Someone could be hiding. But we have had the state police out looking and they’ll continue to look. The thing is...”

He paused and glanced toward Jackson.

“The thing is it might well be someone sitting among you like your best friend,” Jackson Crow told her. “So, be careful.”

“Exactly,” Thor Erikson said quickly.

“Jackson,” she said, “you know Ralph, Simon and Larry!”

“Yes.”

“I trust them with my life!” she said.

“Thank you for your help, Miss Avery,” Erikson told her. His ice-colored eyes fell on her and she realized that his tone had been somewhat gruff. Maybe, despite his calling in life, he’d been just as thrown as she by the girl they’d found dead in the snow. “Send Simon Green in, if you will.”

“Certainly.”

She turned to leave the room, but paused, looking at Jackson. She impulsively hugged him again and said, “Jackson, thank God you’re here!”

And thankfully, he hugged her back.

“We’ll catch this man, too, Clara, or die trying,” he promised her softly.

She gave him a nod and a weak smile.

She didn’t look back at Agent Viking, but left the room, ready to tell Simon that he was next in line.

* * *

Down to the last. Thor, with Jackson now in the room with him, just had two more interviews to go.

He was grateful for Mike—an amazing partner with whom he worked really well.

But he was even more grateful that Jackson Crow had arrived. Thor couldn’t help his feelings and his hunches, and he couldn’t help but believe that these murders were somehow personal.