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.”
Thor had to take in a deep breath. “The reality is,” he said sharply, “that the two women are really dead.”
They all stared at him, disbelieving.
“It’s true!” Clara Avery said. “I saw Amelia.”
Thor noted the grouping: the film people huddled together, and Clara in the arms of the tall blond man who somehow seemed to have “actor” written all over him. Another young man was next to him, and a third, solid man—closer to middle-aged—stood protectively by Clara, as well.
For a moment, they were all silent.
Disbelief began to change to confusion—and horror.
Gotcha. Great.
The sound of a snowmobile broke through. Thor turned. Mike—followed by members of the state police on their vehicles—were arriving at the Alaska Hut at last.
Thor pointed at the group. “Stay here, right where you are. Who else is here that you all know about?”
No one answered at first. They all just stared at him. No one seemed to comprehend the situation.
“Who else is here?” he demanded roughly.
“Um, um...the housekeeper. And the groundskeeper...the Crowley couple,” the woman, fumbling awkwardly with the fallen microphone, managed to say.
“Get them, please. Bring everyone to the parlor,” he said curtly. They all continued to stare at him.
“Now,” he said loudly and firmly, adding, “Please!”
He wasn’t sure if they moved or not. He turned to greet Mike and the others. Someone needed to draw a perimeter around the body—the body pieces—of Amelia Carson.
Forensic teams needed to get out to the island.