“Of course,” Jackson said. “I’m surprised Enfield didn’t argue about her coming back out there with us.”
“I think you’d manage to one-up his authority if it came to that,” Thor said, glancing over at his old partner. Crow was a decade older, but he hadn’t changed much. Even as a young agent, he’d been cool and cautious—able to act in the blink of an eye, but just as capable of thinking.
“It’s not me,” Jackson told him, half smiling as he looked over at him. “The acting director of the Krewe—Adam Harrison—answers only to the director of the FBI. Adam was finding the right people to get things done around the country before he became official and started the Krewe. I was his first guinea pig. Adam had his eye out at all times for the right people. He is a bit of a red tape magician—when we need something, we turn to him.” He was quiet for a minute. “Adam knew about Tate Morley, and he knew about my role in that investigation and that I’d been partners with you. So, there it is.”
“Well—nice,” Thor told him. “I knew a bit about the Krewe. Good that you’re here.”
“Right or wrong as far as the Fairy Tale Killer goes, it’s good to be working this with you,” Jackson said. “And...I’m glad I’m here for Clara.”
Thor glanced at him quickly. “You are just friends, right? I mean, I’m not missing something here that I should be seeing. I heard that you were married to a fellow agent. I don’t imagine the man I worked with not being...monogamous.”
Jackson didn’t take offense. “We’re just friends, good friends—I guess circumstances made it so. And yes, I’m married to a fellow agent, Angela Hawkins. She’s a whiz at management, at finding what is needed, at sending the right agents out to the right place at the right time. When I need information that the local people can’t give me in seconds, I always call back to the Krewe offices.” He hesitated. “I’ve actually thought about you in the last years, even discussed you with Adam. But while we work with a few satellite offices, Alaska wouldn’t be in the mix right now.”
Thor was silent.
He thought that Jackson—and the mysterious Adam Harrison—might ask him into the unit.
It was something he would consider.
Except...
He kept thinking that he had to find the truth for Mandy, who had haunted their dreams, and for the other victims.
And most important...
There was Clara Avery.
They reached the Hawthorne. They stepped out of the car and hurried into the old hotel. It had been built in 1905 by an Emile Hawthorne, an old New Englander who had come to Alaska to work on the railroad line right after Seward had been founded. Hawthorne had fallen in love with the scenery—unbeatable almost anywhere, with the rugged mountains rising to one side and the glistening beauty of the waters of Resurrection Bay on the other.
While it didn’t offer much in the way of security, the Hawthorne did have charm. The lobby offered the comforts of an old lodge—worn leather sofas and chairs, a massive stone hearth and tables where guests could engage in chess, checkers, cards and other nonelectronic games.
It was only two stories tall and had thirty guest rooms, but the restaurant, off the lobby, served locals as well as lodgers and tourists.
Thor made straight for the restaurant.
The cop sent to watch over Clara was rigidly on duty, staying just inside the restaurant, right next to the giant stuffed grizzly that stood as if he were a ma?tre d’, ready to welcome patrons. Thor and Jackson nodded to him; he gave them a thumbs-up sign and pointed to a table in the middle of the room.
Jackson went to speak with the police officer.
Thor paused a moment, watching the table group.
Clara was smiling at something Ralph Martini was saying.
Her smile was infectious, he thought. She was young and beautiful, in her late twenties, he thought, lithe and toned. There was something natural about her, as well. Or maybe sincere was a better description; perhaps both words applied.
But, he knew then, it wasn’t really that at all. He felt something for her that he didn’t remember feeling; somehow, he’d lost the ability to let himself become involved years before. He wasn’t a fool or blind; she was lovely and arresting and the kind of woman to draw attention and desire without ever realizing the power of her appearance or character. Anyone would be attracted—like a moth to a pretty flame.
She wasn’t just good-looking. She was somehow personal now, as well.
He shouldn’t get personal; he knew that.