Deadly Fate

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.

As far as the film company, Wickedly Weird Productions, went...

To be fair, Thor conceded, some of their reality TV was interesting. They did shows that dealt with roadside diners, special tours that no one should miss and unusual cities or areas in the United States. He had a feeling that the real powers that be at the film studios loved history and travel—but they also needed to make money.

That meant that some of their shows were, at best, juvenile.

Those were the programs that were mostly popular with a young crowd—the kind of viewers who found fart jokes hilarious and also seemed to enjoy the distress or humiliation of those caught in the wheels of their “Gotcha!” factory.

Wickedly Weird Productions had rented two of the main properties on Black Bear Island. They included the Mansion, a sumptuous house that had begun its existence as a log cabin only to become something of a modern-day castle, and the Alaska Hut, a “rustic” lodge with eight or nine bedrooms, a huge living room, kitchen, dining room and expansive porches.

The crew was supposedly filming a piece on the Celtic American Cruise Line’s entertainment venues—that’s what the cast members from the ship believed, and what they thought they were signing release forms for. However, the real plan for the day had been to film a segment for their show Gotcha.

Other agents and the Alaska State Troopers were still busy going through procedure in Seward; dealing with the crime scene units, possible witnesses, hotel staff and more. But Thor and Mike and three officers were on this trail—hoping to find that Natalie’s crew and the cast of the Fate were patiently waiting for their leader or already in the midst of filming.

In short, that they were all alive and well.

And it might be very difficult to figure that out.

Because, according to Misty Blaine, they were going to find a scene of carnage—blood and destruction—whether it was real or not.

Misty had supplied them with the file folder on the day’s intended shoot. Wickedly Weird Productions had filled the Mansion and the Alaska Hut with bloody mock-murder scenes. Scenes meant to terrify the Fate cast. Of course, before anyone succumbed to their terror—the film crew would jump out and scream, “Gotcha!”

“Almost there,” Thor heard. He turned around. Lieutenant Bill Meyer, with the Alaska State Troopers, approached them.

“We’ve got a storage shed near the docks,” Bill told them. “We don’t have any permanent force here—a good majority of the year, no one is out here at all. But the owner paid for the snowmobiles we keep. There’s been trouble before, of course. One rush to the hospital. Wild party and a man wound up outside naked and nearly froze to death. Other than that...let’s see, alcohol poisoning, a fight, one time a break-in...mostly, people behaving badly. Not lethally.”

“Thanks,” Thor said. He liked the cops he and Mike were working with—then again, he liked cops in general. His father had taught him from a young age that most were decent and hardworking and doing their best. Only a few were assholes—which he assumed was true in any vocation. Bill Meyer was a good guy, he knew. They’d worked together before. Bill had been assigned to Anchorage for a year and he’d spent many of his off-hours finding the down-and-outers and trying to get them help.

The Coast Guard cutter arrived at the one long dock the island offered. Captain Filmore handed out walkie-talkies to Thor, Mike, and Bill Meyer and his men, instructing them to keep close contact.

“There’s no telling what you’ll encounter, but...”

“We’re not going to be meeting an army,” Mike said.

“But, a strong man with some lethal weapons,” Thor said. “Perhaps meeting up with a number of accomplices? Thing is, to escape the hotel security, it had to be someone who appeared to be part of the hotel staff. You didn’t have just anyone doing that. You had someone with an extremely sharp weapon—and the strength to make that weapon cut through flesh and bone.”

Someone who might not even be on the island—who might be chopping off more heads back in Seward.

Then again...

They might find a slew of dead right here. Oh, wait. They definitely would; he just hoped the dead were all mannequins and stage props.

“Yeah. Anyway, watch your backs,” the captain said.

“Will do,” Meyer murmured. Thor and the others nodded.

Ten minutes later, they were on the snowmobiles, headed to the Mansion. And then another ten minutes, riding through the snow that almost continually covered the island, brought them to their destination—and a scene of utter chaos.

Bodies strewn here and there, blood sprayed everywhere.

Thor hunkered down by the first body.

He looked up at Mike. “Mannequin,” he said.

Bill Meyer had hurried on to another. “Fake blood,” he called.

Thor moved through the downstairs, stopping at each body—it was all part of the staged scene that the assistant producer had told them about.

“Someone thought that this would be funny?” Mike asked with disgust.

“Apparently,” Thor said, rising after his inspection of the last “corpse.”

“They just had to come to Alaska,” Bill Meyer muttered.

“Thing is,” Thor said, “where is the film crew? And where is the cast?”

“Alaska Hut—or here, somewhere, in all this. I’ll take the upstairs,” Mike said. “We may find real bodies yet. Fellows? A hand?” he asked the state police officers.

They nodded and started to follow him up the stairs to the many rooms above. “Man, this is sick!” one of them muttered.

“I’m on the exterior,” Thor said.

Near the top landing, Mike nodded.

Thor headed out. There were no snowmobile tracks leaving the Mansion, but there had been precipitation in the last few hours, so a path might have easily been covered.

He kept looking. And that was when he found the trail of footsteps.

And he began to follow it.

* * *

The Alaska Hut, the Alaska Hut... Help would be there, all she had to do was reach it...

It might be summer, but the snow was still thick on the ground on the rise. She was slogging through it, sinking and falling and trying to right herself. She staggered and fell—thinking of the times she had mocked horror movies, those that featured victims who seemed to trip over their own feet.

And then, over another rise, she saw it. The Alaska Hut.

Help! Help would be there.

Producer, director, fellow actors, makeup artists, costumers and...security! All she had to do was reach it.

But...was anyone left alive? She hadn’t waited long enough at the Mansion to find out, not after she’d seen what she’d seen and heard movement upstairs and then...

Coming down the steps.

She’d run.

She should have stayed to help Larry.

No, how could she have helped him—against all that carnage? She didn’t even have a plastic butter knife on her!

She could see it...the Alaska Hut...just ahead.

Hope allowed her to redouble her efforts. She heard the sound of her breath, and the squish of her footsteps as she ran the best she could over the snow. Her legs burned, her lungs were now pure fire.

Suddenly, a voice called out to her. She nearly lost her footing in the snow as panic swept through her anew.

“Stop! Stop now!”

Stop? What insanity was that?

She ran all the harder!

She didn’t hear footsteps following so close behind her—she didn’t hear or feel anything at first, just that pounding of her heart, the ragged and desperate rise and fall of her breath...

And then, it felt as if she was hit from behind by a semi.

She went down, flying, her face smashing into the coldness of the snow, a mouthful of the stuff nearly choking her. There was someone on top of her...or trying to drag her up.

And all she could picture was the blood spattered over the snow-white landscape, the woman cut in half...pieces connected by a pool of blood.

And so she fought. She fought with every remaining ounce of energy within her; she fought for her life.

2

Thor was at a disadvantage.

The young woman he tackled hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to his words or his tap on her back, and she’d gone completely ballistic when he’d tried to stop her.

Now she fought and kicked like a banshee.

“Miss, miss, please!” he tried again.

Maybe she was deaf.

He was trying hard not to hurt her, but she had the athletic agility of a cat and managed a right hook to his jaw that would have done a boxer proud.

She was in panic—and he understood. But, hell! At some point she had to realize...

“Stop!” he snapped, catching her shoulders and straddling her. “Stop, please! FBI. Special Agent Thor Erikson. FBI! Stop!”

And then, she did, at last.

She stared up at him, blinked, her expression unchanging.

He immediately wondered who she was; the woman beneath him had fair skin, brilliantly blue eyes and a long mop of golden hair beneath the hood of her snow jacket—hair that tumbled around her face in wild strands after their altercation. He found himself tensing; she looked like a fairy-tale princess, a Sleeping Beauty beyond a doubt. Her features were delicate and well-formed, her lips were full—more blue out in the cold than red, but rich and full—and he imagined they could curl into the perfect bow of a smile.

She wasn’t smiling. She stared at him blankly.

“FBI,” he repeated. “You’re safe,” he said.

She seemed to digest that for a minute and then breathed softly. “Really?”

He didn’t get off her, but he sat back carefully on his haunches to produce his credentials.

She looked at them.

He had a feeling, though, that in her mind it was the fact that she was still alive more than his identification that convinced her of the truth.

“Really,” he said.

She stared at him suspiciously—and stared at the documents again. “Thor?” she said.

“Yes, Thor. Thor Erikson.”

“It sounds made up.”

“It is made up. My parents—Heidi and Olaf Erikson—made it up when I was born!”

Again, she was silent for a minute, and then she said, “If that’s the truth, perhaps you wouldn’t mind getting off me? It’s very, very cold.”

He quickly rose and offered her a hand. She seemed to hesitate before accepting it, but then she did, trying to dust some of the snow off herself after she had risen. “Have you seen...?” she asked then.

“Miss...?” he began.

“Avery. Clara Avery,” she said. “Have you seen... Oh, God. The film crew—they’re all dead. Some at the Mansion...and now...here.”

“Miss Avery, I was just at the Mansion. I’m afraid that you’ve been misled because of a sick prank. The scene you discovered there was completely fabricated by set and scene designers for an episode of Gotcha.”

“No,” she murmured. She blinked, as if unable to assimilate that anyone could do such a thing as a prank.

Frankly, he couldn’t begin to understand it, either.

“Yes, Miss Avery. But, I’m sorry to say—”

“Even the—the body in the snow?”

He’d meant to tell her about Natalie Fontaine, but before he could do so, she had interrupted.

“What body in the snow?” he asked.

Her brows hiked up. “You didn’t see it?”

“No. I saw you—I tried to get you to stop, to listen to me.”

“You tackled me,” she muttered, and she seemed to be aggravated and angry—at the film people or him, he wasn’t sure, or maybe even herself—and apparently even more disgusted by the body in the snow.

“Where is this body?” he asked.

She pointed over a little rise of snow. “There,” she said.

It was probably more of the horror created by Wickedly Weird.

“A body...um, two pieces,” she said.

He didn’t reply; he headed over the rise in the direction she had pointed.

Then he saw the drops of blood.

And then the dead woman.

A dead woman, in two pieces, as she had said.

He had witnessed pictures of a scene like this, too.

And then he knew what kicked in his memory.

The Black Dahlia.

This woman had been cut in two...and lain out just like the Black Dahlia. An unsolved murder; he had seen crime scene photos in one of the numerous classes he was always taking on criminology for the FBI.

He hoped against hope that this was another horror vignette by the Gotcha people.

But, as he neared the bisected body, and smelled the tinny scent of real blood, he knew that it was not.

He pulled out his radio and called back to the state police and Mike.

“We have another corpse,” he said quietly. “A real one.”

* * *

The city was filled with cell phones, PA systems, rapid response teams, computers, and all manner of tools and aids for investigation.

All of that was moot on Black Bear Island. Phones never seemed to work; the internet needed to be reconnected.

He had his walkie-talkie, and he had a corpse in the snow, and a woman standing so still she might have been a statue—except that she shook like blue blazes.

He shouldn’t leave the corpse; he really shouldn’t keep a witness standing there.

But there had to be something there that suggested how the killer had come and gone, what weapon or weapons he had used—and where the hell he was now. But there seemed to be nothing; just the victim, bisected, dead in the snow. Not enough blood for the young woman to have been murdered where she lay, so she must have been brought out here—and cut in half.

By what instrument? It wasn’t easy to do—unless you happened to know how to use a French headsman’s sword or a Japanese samurai sword, a machete or a chain saw. But a chain saw would have left little bits of flesh abounding around the body, like wood chips...

There were no prints in the snow. Nothing leading away from the disposal of the body. It looked as if the victim might have been teleported to where she lay.

It wouldn’t take Mike long to get there. Thor carefully skirted the body and hiked over the little rise. The snow there was already trodden and thrown—it was where he and the shaking blond had wound up in their ridiculous tussle.

His jaw still hurt. The woman knew how to throw a right hook.

“So horrible!” she whispered, as if to herself and not to him.

“You went to the Mansion?” he said.

She nodded jerkily. “I told you that I did—and what I saw!”

He didn’t know why—especially with his jaw still hurting—but he put his hands on her shoulders, causing her to actually look at him and heed his words. “And I told you. No one there is dead. Those are mannequins at the Mansion.”

It took a second for that to register in her mind. He saw anger filter into her eyes. “It was all a joke for that ridiculous show Gotcha?” she demanded.

“Not all,” he said quietly. “The woman in the snow is really dead.” He hesitated. “Natalie Fontaine is dead, too.”

Her eyes widened again. He realized just how striking she was then. The color of her eyes was blue, and yet a blue nothing at all like his ice color. Her eyes were deep and rich, almost a royal blue, and set against features with fine bone structure, arched honey brows and a perfectly straight nose.

Her face was flushed, of course. Reddened from their scramble in the snow.

“Natalie...and Amelia?” she whispered, as if the two women being dead was the most confusing possibility known to man.

“You knew them well?” he asked quietly.

“I had just met them. Still...”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“But, but my friends...are here. Somewhere. And if all the people at the house...if the scene wasn’t real... I don’t understand what’s going on at all, but I know that my friends are supposed to be on the island somewhere. Cast mates, from the show we’re doing on the ship. They headed out before me—they’re here on the island.”

The next sentences lay unspoken between them.

They are here. Dead or alive, no one knows.

The way she looked at him now, he wondered if she really believed that he was who he was—and whether he still might intend to kill her.

She seemed to shrink beneath his hold.

She lowered her head and inched back half a foot—as if anxious to be free from his touch.

Then she looked up at him and there was a hard strength that she’d forced into her features. “I came for Vacation USA. That’s what the head of entertainment for Celtic American asked me to do. The other cast members—except for our ingenue, who is finishing up a previous engagement—came here ahead of me this morning. But that was a hoax, you’re telling me? They were going to try to scare us half to death to film us for Gotcha. So those corpses at the Mansion weren’t real. But, Amelia is really...dead. And Natalie Fontaine is dead, too. That is the real situation?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

“Miss Avery, have you seen anyone else here on the island—alive?”

She looked at him with alarm. “Oh, God! Oh, God, Simon... Larry... Ralph!”

She turned and started to run. He tore after her. He realized that she was headed for the Alaska Hut.

He didn’t want to tackle her again. But he also didn’t want her rushing into the building if there was a sword/knife/machete-wielding killer awaiting her.

“Miss Avery!”

She kept running.

No choice.

He caught her by the shoulders and they went down together again. She started to fight him but he gripped her hard.

“Wait!” he said firmly. “Let me go first—”

“My friends—”

“I have a gun. You don’t!” he snapped.

She went still and nodded at that, probably realizing the folly of running into the unknown. Thor rose, not waiting for her to accept an offered hand, just pulling her back up with him. They were both covered in snow. He went first, moving with good speed through the soft snow. He heard her behind him. At the door of the rustic log cabin, he pulled his weapon, and then threw the wooden door open.

A flash of light went off.

“Gotcha!” someone shouted.

He assessed that six people were there, five men, one woman; the lone woman held a microphone, while one man held a large camera.

The woman dropped the microphone and screamed as she noted that he was wielding a gun.

“FBI,” he said quickly.

From behind him, Clara Avery went tearing through, throwing herself into the arms of a tall blond man.

“What the hell...?” the man asked.

“Natalie Fontaine is dead,” Clara said. “And...and Amelia Carson. She’s dead—dead in the snow.”

“No, no!” the woman in the group said, trying to ascertain how badly she had damaged the microphone she’d dropped. “No, it’s all just for Gotcha. See the mic you made me drop? I’m Becca Marle, sound. It’s—it’s just a joke,” she finished weakly.

A man at her side, slightly older, spoke up. “Tommy Marchant, cameraman, videographer... We’re filming them. That’s it. See, we got your cast mates before you, too—they also thought it was real. Maybe they decided to join in and scare us as well or...”

He desperately wanted his words to be true.

“No,” Thor said harshly, holstering his gun and producing his credentials. “No—the scene at the Mansion might have been for your show, but Miss Fontaine and Miss Carson are dead.”

“Don’t try to trick a trickster,” one of the men protested. “What—are you from dial-a-stripper or something? Set up to play bad cop? Hey, don’t mess with me. I’m Nate Mahoney, best young fabricator coming up the ranks. Trust me, I know I’m good. But it’s for TV, it’s for a show, a reality show.”