Jackson and he seemed to exchange some kind of silent communication.
Thor continued, “So, we’ll take another good look in the morning. Forensic crews have been all over the place, but...”
“But they weren’t there when I was,” Clara said. “And I know that I heard something. Anyway, good night, gentlemen.” She turned and headed back into the room that had actually been assigned to her.
She tried to tell herself that no ghost was as bad as an agent with an attitude.
But that was a lie.
She was still terrified.
And so she lay awake with the television on and the lights glaring.
Somewhere along the line, she slept.
She felt as if someone tried to wake her then, speaking her name softly, shaking her shoulder.
She opened her eyes.
And there she was, Amelia Carson, dark hair curling around her pretty features, snow hood fallen back, a serious look on her face.
Clara nearly screamed. Except that when she blinked, Amelia was gone.
And Special Agent Thor Erikson was at her door, tapping, calling her name and—as seemed perpetual now—scowling when he looked at her.
“You wanted to go by the Mansion? Let’s do it,” he said. “Five minutes, please.”
The door closed and she was left alone. She sat up, shivering and certain that the room was exceptionally cold, even for Alaska.
It was as cold as...
Death.
6
Forensic crews had worked through the night at the Mansion; in their efforts to find anything at all, they had removed, bagged and tagged the props in the bloody scene that had been left there by Wickedly Weird Productions.
But it wasn’t the inside that concerned Thor at the moment.
While Mike was seeing to it that the remaining members of the film crew and Ralph, Simon and Larry were returned to the mainland, Thor, Jackson and Clara were walking around the Mansion.
And Clara was right: a group of Sitka spruce grew by the side of the house, all of them huge trees and some with heavy branches.
Smaller branches lay broken in the snow. Any number of birds or other animals might have caused the breakage.
But it also might have been caused by a man climbing a tree.
Thor remained downstairs with Clara while Jackson went up to a second-floor bedroom. He looked down at them, easily opening and closing the window.
“See!” Clara breathed, turning on Thor. “There was someone in there!”
“Might have been someone in there,” he said.
“Might have been!” Clara exclaimed, staring at him furiously. “I’m trying to help! I tell you things—and you act as if I’m a terrified two-year-old! Don’t tell me to talk to a damned ghost—and then disbelieve me when I tell you something credible!”
She was, he thought, in her right to be angry. But she didn’t understand that everything in their world was a “might be” until it could be proved as fact.
He turned his attention from the window to her and almost smiled. Her blue eyes were shimmering with indignation. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, and she almost looked like a mud wrestler about to go into action.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said. “Until something is proven, it’s theory. Your theories are not without sound merit.”
His answer seemed to puzzle her—at the least, deflate her.
“They’re still checking the island,” he told her. “We’ll keep searching it. The problem is, of course, that the nooks and crannies and coves that lead to the water are as plentiful as the hiding places. In winter...well, in winter, it’s doubtful this would have happened. Even the heartiest native might well freeze to death out in the wild. But it’s summer. The water between here and the mainland—in several directions—is clear. Someone could have come and gone.”
“Like they did from the Alaska Hut last night?” she asked evenly.
He looked back at her and nodded, not sure why she had managed to evoke hostility in him.
It was fear—fear for her. Because he’d seen Mandy Brandt in a dream again last night.
And, of course, it was the fact that both he and Jackson felt like they were on a tightrope.
Because Tate Morley was out.
Naturally, they’d kept abreast of the situation. Agents, US marshals and police from every city, county and state were on the lookout. They were following every clue.
But Tate Morley had covered his tracks, becoming a doctor, covering up the corpse of the doctor and even signing himself out of the prison.
All done with an hour to spare before his subterfuge had been discovered.
There was no reason to suspect that he might have been in Alaska.
But there was no reason to believe that he might not have gotten here—and come specifically to kill the man who had caused his incarceration.
Thor.
He wasn’t worried for himself; he knew Morley, knew how he moved, talked and even thought. He never slept without his Glock in easy reach. His home had alarms up the wazoo.
He knew, too, that Morley wouldn’t want to just kill him.
He would want to torture him.