Deadly Fate

“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, hugging an agenda, bored and anxious at the same time.

“Mr. Kimball?” Thor said.

The man stopped speaking and turned to him. “And you are?” he asked sharply.

“Special Agent Thor Erikson, in charge of the murder investigation on the island,” Thor said, keeping his voice level.

“Ah, yes. Of course, well, please tell me that you plan to bring this awful affair to a speedy resolution!” Kimball said. He smiled suddenly. It wasn’t a warm and cuddly smile. It had as much ice in it as the glaciers that loomed around the bay.

“Indeed we do. Why are you here?”

“I own the place!”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Kimball. But at the moment, you have rented the property out,” Thor said.

“Not to the FBI.”

“No, sir, to Miss Fontaine. Who is dead. This is an active and intense investigation. I’m sure that my colleagues in Seward have spoken with you,” Thor said.

Thor kept his features carefully controlled. On the one hand, he was irritated. He’d met with men like Kimball before. They were accustomed to walking into a room and taking charge. Money seemed to cow many people.

But he was also amused. Thor was flanked by Jackson and Mike. He knew that they were a formidable trio and that Kimball was sizing them up. His zillions of dollars and attorneys could probably make many things happen, but at the moment, he was just facing the three of them.

“As this horrible thing occurred on my property, I came here as quickly as I could. I am an absentee landlord most of the time, Special Agent—Erkson?”

“Erikson,” Thor said pleasantly.

“I’m here to help in any way that I possibly can. I bought Black Bear Island because I truly love it. I know it like the back of my hand. I can help you search the island. I can tell you where little caches of survival supplies can be found. There is a great deal I can do to help you.”

Thor became aware that, despite the state police officers assigned to keep everyone separated, the crew members from Wickedly Weird Productions were also in the room watching what was going on—gaping a bit.

Along with the police officers.

He figured it was natural. Kimball was almost as rich as Donald Trump, or so the media claimed.

“Thank you again, sir. We appreciate your offer,” Thor said. “I believe, for now, the best we can ask is that you settle into your home for the night. Officers will be on guard. In the morning, they’ll be renewing their search of the island. If you’re willing to help with that search and remain with the officers, it will be deeply appreciated.”

“However,” Jackson said, stepping forward, “we have to warn you that we don’t know what we’re dealing with—”

“She was chopped in half!”

He turned. Becca Marle was standing there, staring at Kimball in awe, and yet horrified anew as she voiced a fact of the murder.

“The point is,” Jackson continued, “any search for this killer might be highly dangerous, and perhaps, for a man of your standing, not advisable.”

Kimball wasn’t a fool. “Agent... I didn’t catch your name, sir. You are...?”

“Assistant Director Crow,” Jackson said.

“I believe you’re not referring to the importance of me in the world, sir, but rather to the fact that you don’t believe I’m capable of defending myself. I am happy to advise you that I am a crack shot and have trained with some of the finest experts in the world in martial arts and various other forms of self-defense. I can provide documentation as to my prowess, if you wish.”

“We’ll take a signature on a waiver that you’ve chosen to work with law enforcement,” Thor told the man.

“I shall sign that I insist,” Kimball said. He looked at his watch. “Are you gentlemen aware of the time?”