Deadly Fate

“If it makes you feel better, there was less blood than there could have been,” he said. “Miss Carson was apparently killed elsewhere—and dumped where she was found.”

Clara didn’t react in any way; she didn’t know the proper reaction to such words.

“Why were you running?” he asked her.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked.

“No,” he said very seriously. “I don’t kid under circumstances like this.”

Well, of course you don’t.

She almost snapped the words out, but refrained. “Surely, sir, you’re aware that I was at the Mansion. And I believe you saw the Mansion?”

“Fake,” he said. “All for the cameras.”

“Yes, well, Agent Erikson, you knew that. I did not.”

“But why did you run out here?”

“The hut is out here! I hoped to God I’d find friends at the hut, film crew, people—anyone other than whoever did that!”

“You acted as if you were being chased.”

“I was being chased.”

“By who?”

“By whoever killed all those people—I assumed,” she said.

“Did you have reason to believe someone was after you?” he asked her, frowning.

“Yes, I heard something,” she said.

“Heard it from where?” he asked her.

“In the house—the Mansion. I didn’t go in very far. I came up the front steps. I opened the door to the mudroom, and then to the foyer. And then...then I stared in horror at what I thought was a massacre.”

“You didn’t call out—you didn’t scream?”

She shook her head. “I was too—too terrified to scream. Then I started to back out of the house and...yes! I’m certain that I heard someone upstairs. And by what I saw...it might have been whoever did this. So I turned to run out and as I did so...yes! Yes, I heard someone on the stairs. So I started to run as hard as I could. I figured my only hope for help was the Alaska Hut. I didn’t know what had happened at the Mansion, only that no one—no one living—was there to meet me. And I knew that part of the filming was supposed to be at the Alaska Hut. I figured people had to be there—someone who could help.”

“What if you had found the same thing here, at the Alaska Hut?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I didn’t think like that. I couldn’t think like that. If so...”

She didn’t say it aloud. Maybe if she had allowed herself to think the worst, she would have just lain down in the snow to die.

“But you’re positive you heard someone.”

She nodded. “Pretty positive.”

“Pretty positive.”

Annoyance shot through her like a bolt. “Look, I’m not an agent. I’m not a cop. I don’t even like horror movies. I live alone. I like musicals and The Big Bang Theory and reruns of Friends and Frasier and I Love Lucy. I never even watched shows like Gotcha. I don’t think I knew it existed. I was scared out of my wits and I ran, pretty darned certain that I’d heard someone and that if I didn’t want to be minced meat, too, I needed to run and pray for help.”

“We haven’t found anyone on the island so far,” he told her.

“Well, you don’t think that I paused in running from the house to chop a sweet stranger in half, do you?” she demanded, her temper flaring.

“I thought you knew Miss Carson.”

“I met her once. Yesterday. The first time I was out here on the island. I met with Natalie Fontaine and Amelia Carson at the Mansion and then Tommy Marchant—their cameraman—gave me a tour of the island in a snowmobile thing that seats two. I knew where the Mansion was in relation to the Alaska Hut. I know now where there are heavily forested sections of the island and where there’s ice down to the water. I know the dock. That’s what I know. To the best of my knowledge, you can reach this place by private boat and ferry and that’s it. I’m not a regular at wild parties here, Agent. I sure as hell don’t know what more you want from me!”

“Cooperation!” he exploded.

He leaned back in the office chair, hands gripping the sides. If he’d had longer hair, been wearing furs, and maybe had an Irish wolfhound at his side, he’d have looked like a conquering Viking.

“Miss Avery, as you might have noticed, there’s a heinous killer at work here. Two people you knew were brutally murdered. I’d like every bit of help you can give me—if I’m not keeping you from an episode of Friends for too long!”

She stiffened as if she’d been hit by lightning.

“I’m trying to help! And don’t you give me this holier-than-thou speech! I know how to cooperate. I’ve worked with the FBI, real FBI, good FBI agents! They were all there when the Archangel came on the Destiny and—”

“What?” He leaned forward suddenly, staring at her as if he was convinced that she had suddenly announced that she was the Archangel herself.

She foundered. “I was last supposed to be performing on Celtic American Cruise Line’s Destiny. We never did do the show. There was a storm at sea and a killer on the ship and, thankfully, Special Agents Crow and McCoy and...”

Her voice trailed off. He was still staring at her.

“Look. I’m sorry. I know I’m being rude. I’m sure you’re an excellent agent.” She stopped speaking again. She was afraid she’d spill out something like So, you see, I do know how agents should act! You think you’re tough, huh. Yeah. You’ve got the look. You could be an actor. You’d make an excellent Viking. I could totally see you in The 13th Warrior. And you’d have been great in Thor, given Chris Hemsworth a run for his money—move over, Stellan Skarsgård.

Thankfully, she managed not to speak.

They were both still staring at each other when there was a rap at the door and it opened a shade.

“Thor?”

Clara knew the voice; she knew it because she had depended on Jackson Crow as if he were a lifeline when she’d been on the Destiny.

The man in front of her blinked. He stood, recognizing the new arrival, as well.

“Jackson,” he said.

Clara leaned back for a minute, just breathing. Then she, too, rose to her feet and turned to the door.

Jackson Crow had arrived. He was busy shedding a huge parka. He hadn’t taken note of her yet; he walked across the room.

She’d expected that maybe such manly agents greeted one another with stiff handshakes, but she was mistaken. The two embraced in a fierce hug instead.