“Sir,” he asked Enfield, “why would anyone believe that the murder in Seward might have been committed by the Fairy Tale Killer? Was the victim laid out to look like a princess—like Morley’s victims?”
“No,” Enfield said. “Like I said, we’re not sure it’s the same man—the display of the victim was completely different. But the Fairy Tale Killer is out there somewhere. I have all the information in your folders in the chopper. You can read on your way. Just trust me—the Fairy Tale Killer may not be at work up here, but this isn’t your usual murder, not in any way, shape or form. God help you—you’d better catch this monster fast.”
*
Clara Avery came to an abrupt halt.
She’d been running, running, running through the snow, well aware that her very life depended on reaching the Alaska Hut before...
Before the killer caught up with her.
Her breath sounded like an orchestra to her own ears; her lungs burned as if they were ablaze with an inner wildfire.
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.