Heather Graham - Deadly Fate

Even as she came to a dead stop, she felt the thunder of her heart.

It was the blood, the blood spattered over the snow, that brought her to the abrupt halt.

There was nothing like it, nothing like the color of blood on the snow on a sunlit day. It was a riveting hue, brilliant and vivid against the golden rays shooting down from the royal blue sky. It was spattered in a clump and led...just over the next rise.

She’d thought he was behind her.

The killer.

But...

She couldn’t just stand there in indecision.

But she didn’t know what the hell to do. Was the killer behind her? Or had he somehow managed to move ahead?

No, that couldn’t be the case. She knew that he had seen her at the Mansion, knew that he’d still been in there, knew that he had heard her leave...

And was in pursuit.

There was only one way to go—forward. Yet she dreaded every step because now...

Now she followed a tiny trickle of blood over the next rise of snow.

Stopping had been a mistake; her body seemed to scream now at movement, even though she wasn’t running. She was walking slowly and carefully over the rise...

And then she saw her.

Dead in the snow.

Amelia Carson, her raven-black hair as startling as the color of the blood against the sea of white around her. She was faceup, arms stretched out as if she were embracing the sun or making a snow angel beneath it.

With her arms only. She was in two pieces, cut in half at the waist.

Her lower body and limbs lay just a few feet away, a pool of blood separating them.

She had met Amelia Carson—celebrity hostess of many a short-lived TV show—only once. But she had met her. She knew her. And here she was...

Who else was dead?

She didn’t even know! She’d seen the carnage at the Mansion and heard the movement upstairs and then the footsteps on the steps...

Clara stood still, her breath caught in her chest. She needed to think, but it seemed that her mind was as numb as her limbs. This scene had been displayed to strike fear and terror, to paralyze...

And it worked.

It was as if she was frozen.

* * *

Not your usual murder.

Though what was usual about murder?

And did it matter to Natalie Fontaine now that she had been victimized whether her death had been usual?

Natalie hadn’t been killed for her money or possessions; she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. It didn’t seem that the act had been carried out in a fit of passion—though a great deal of thought and strength had gone into the execution of the deed.

Thor could still close his eyes and picture the room in the hotel, just as they had seen it, the body curled on the bed in what appeared to be a sleeping position. According to the medical examiner, the killer had strangled his victim before laying her out as he had, as if she were curled up...

Except her head was missing. It had been left on the dresser for all to see the minute the door was opened.

It was the head that had immediately assured the hotel staff that foul play had occurred.

The scene had been arranged like a tableau. It haunted Thor, and he knew he had viewed such a scene before...

In a picture? In an old crime scene photo?

Memory eluded him, so he’d made notes of all the facts.

Joe Mason of hotel security had come up because some neighboring guests had dialed the desk about a disturbance.

Mason had dutifully gone to the room, called out, tapped and banged for entry, and then, receiving no response, opened the door at 5:35 a.m.

The FBI offices in Anchorage and across the country had been alerted soon after.

The crime scene had filled with members of different law enforcement agencies and forensic experts. Most of their information had been gleaned slowly and painstakingly from Misty Blaine, Natalie’s production assistant, who had just been getting dressed for the day in her room on the first floor. As experts learned more and more, they began to fear for others.

Law enforcement had to get out to Black Bear Island and find the people Natalie Fontaine had been scheduled to work with that morning.

A surprise had been planned for that day—not the horrifying one that had befallen her after all, but something gruesomely similar.

All in the name of reality TV.

And so Thor and Mike were now in a coast guard vessel, headed out to Black Bear Island.

“Ironic,” Mike murmured.

Yes, it was. Misty Blaine had told them about the scene that was to be staged later that day. The cast of the Celtic American Cruise Line’s Saturday-night performance on the Fate ship had been told that a film company would be interviewing them for their show Vacation USA. Unbeknownst to them, the cast was actually going to be featured on the show Gotcha, a knockoff of Candid Camera and Punk’d. Yes. Ironic.

The scenery that they encountered on their way was, in Thor’s opinion, some of the most beautiful and spectacular to be viewed anywhere on earth. Crystal-blue waters, peaks of white ice rising, a sky clear and majestic.

And Black Bear Island before them.

The main problem with the island was that not even the newest, “smartest” smartphone worked out there.

Natalie Fontaine should have arrived that morning. Ready to greet her first interviewee for the day.

Four members of Natalie’s film crew were also supposed to be out on the island already—cameraman Tommy Marchant, sound technician Becca Marle, hostess Amelia Carson and fabricator Nate Mahoney. Joining them should have been four members of the cast and crew of Celtic American Cruise Line’s Broadway-style Saturday-night show.

Also expected were the island’s caretaker, Justin Crowley, along with the property manager, or glorified housekeeper—his wife, Magda.

The film crew was not answering the radio. Neither were Mr. or Mrs. Crowley.

Thor chafed inwardly, dreading what they might find, anxious to get there.

He’d been chafing all day, he knew.

The dream; the nightmare.

And now Jackson was coming, as well.

He tried to breathe. Usually, being on the water was like receiving some kind of a cleansing balm on the heart and soul. Nowhere else in the world was the air so crisp and clean.

The wind was in his hair, the sun on his face, as the ferry approached the rugged terrain of the island. There were no roads here that allowed for cars—the ferry gave transport to snowmobiles and dogsleds, the only conveyances that could bring supplies to the island.

Pity that it was privately held; it should have been part of the national park system—a little piece of crystal heaven for the world to enjoy. It was elevated to such a height that even in summer, when the average mean temperature of Seward hovered around sixty degrees, there was often snow on the ground. Snow also covered the many peaks that rose in haphazard beauty here and there, dotted with crystal lakes, birds and animals finding refuge among them.

The island wasn’t owned by the government or the public; it was the property of an absentee landowner, Marc Kimball, oil baron and Wall Street phenomenon. Enfield had assured Thor that Kimball had been advised via his assistant—a very soft-spoken woman named Emmy Vincenzo, who Enfield hoped had truly comprehended the severity of his message—that Natalie Fontaine had been murdered and police and FBI would be headed to the island in her stead. Kimball had rented the island and its properties out to Natalie Fontaine and her Wickedly Weird Productions, and was expecting their film crew this morning.

Thor had read the folder that had been left for him on the chopper to Seward—and listened to Misty Blaine’s panicky and barely coherent explanation of the day of filming that had been planned. None of it was good; all of it added ridiculousness to what was already bizarre, gruesome and horrible.