3

      A deeper chill settled over Clara. That was it—of course. They were all suspects.

      No, no, no. These men couldn’t possibly believe that she—or Ralph, Simon or Larry!—could have had anything to do with these horrendous murders.

      Jackson would quickly set him straight on that!

      But what about the film crew? She couldn’t believe they had anything to do with the murders. They’d all been too shocked, stunned and horrified when they’d been told that it was not a prank any longer, that people were dead.

      But it was an island. And the only people here were her cast mates and the crew working for the film company.

      And, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Crowley. The caretakers for the estate.

      Had they been interviewed? Clara hadn’t even seen them yet, though she knew that Larry had gone to find them and that they had been at the Alaska Hut.

      But, no. Impossible. She’d met the couple. They were in their late sixties or early seventies. Mrs. Crowley was an attractive, slim, gray-haired woman who was, admittedly, a little odd. She was coldly—but perfectly—courteous while making sure people, even Natalie Fontaine, understood that even though she was there to oversee and facilitate, they needed to help themselves and be self-sufficient if they needed something.

      Mr. Crowley matched his wife; he was still fit as a fiddle.

      And strong.

      Strong enough to wield whatever weapon it took to cut a woman in half?

      No, Mr. Crowley was a little weird, but to her, at least, he had been as nice and cheerful as a department-store Santa.

      She shook her head and let out a long breath.

      Maybe she could be helpful—state some simple facts.

      “It is an island, Agent. It’s also heavily forested and has a ragged coastline with caves beneath ice and snow. It has little peaks and valleys. I believe there are survival caches left in various places around the island. Someone could be hiding out in the trees. Someone in a small boat could make it from the mainland in about fifteen minutes—that’s about how long it took to get here when the captain the company hired brought me out. He left me at the dock, but there are a lot of shallows and little beachy areas around the southern and western sides. A person—or persons—could easily come and go from a zillion little hidden coves.”

      “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Someone could be hiding. But we have had the state police out looking and they’ll continue to look. The thing is...”

      He paused and glanced toward Jackson.

      “The thing is it might well be someone sitting among you like your best friend,” Jackson Crow told her. “So, be careful.”

      “Exactly,” Thor Erikson said quickly.

      “Jackson,” she said, “you know Ralph, Simon and Larry!”

      “Yes.”

      “I trust them with my life!” she said.

      “Thank you for your help, Miss Avery,” Erikson told her. His ice-colored eyes fell on her and she realized that his tone had been somewhat gruff. Maybe, despite his calling in life, he’d been just as thrown as she by the girl they’d found dead in the snow. “Send Simon Green in, if you will.”

      “Certainly.”

      She turned to leave the room, but paused, looking at Jackson. She impulsively hugged him again and said, “Jackson, thank God you’re here!”

      And thankfully, he hugged her back.

      “We’ll catch this man, too, Clara, or die trying,” he promised her softly.

      She gave him a nod and a weak smile.

      She didn’t look back at Agent Viking, but left the room, ready to tell Simon that he was next in line.

      * * *

      Down to the last. Thor, with Jackson now in the room with him, just had two more interviews to go.

      He was grateful for Mike—an amazing partner with whom he worked really well.

      But he was even more grateful that Jackson Crow had arrived. Thor couldn’t help his feelings and his hunches, and he couldn’t help but believe that these murders were somehow personal.

      And had to do with him and Jackson—and the Fairy Tale Killer.

      The day had been ungodly long. While he and Jackson continued to speak with the others, Mike worked with the state police.

      No one knew why the phones were down. The techs believed a phone line had been cut somewhere, but it would take a very long time to find out how and where. Of course, phones and electricity went out on the island often enough without help from a criminal mind.

      The radios had just been gone. Taken. How or when, no one knew.

      The television worked via satellite, but the internet system on the island had been through the phone company and was thus down, as well.

      The island had been, for all intents and purposes, cut off.

      Thor was good at reading people. At seeing ticks and nuances, the fall of someone’s lids over their eyes, the way they sat—many little things that gave away a liar.

      But it seemed—so far—that everyone was telling the truth. Becca Marle, a woman in her early thirties, was athletic and he had the feeling she was usually competent and capable of handling her mic and sound system on her own. She had short dark hair and a muscular, almost square shape, which made him, naturally, wonder about her strength. But, she was still stunned when they spoke; she broke into tears every few seconds, as well.

      Tommy Marchant was the oldest in the group, maybe forty-five or fifty, tall with a slightly protruding middle, graying hair and a sun-wrinkled face.

      He’d spent most of the interview shaking his head. “Natalie. I’ve worked with her—on one project or another—for nearly twenty years,” he’d repeat now and then. He’d wince, and shake his head again. “Can’t believe it—can’t believe it.”

      Nate Mahoney had been the most interesting of the film crew in his initial interview. He couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the fact that the deaths had been real. He talked about being a fabricator. He could make almost anything appear to be something else. “But, these days...well, there are unions and all, but I hang around to fix fabrications, of course, but also to deal with props and help out. Film...and TV! So fickle these days. The blood and guts were all my inventions. Great, huh. Oh, God, how terrible now. The fake has become the real. I mean, I’m good at what I do, but...wow. I don’t know much about self-defense. I’m scared. Should we be scared?”

      Thor had told him that he needed to be vigilant, alert and wary—and, of course, to report anything at all to him or Mike immediately.

      He thought about Becca Marle again. She had spent most of the interview crying. She was so distraught she hadn’t even thought to be afraid for herself, but, he imagined, soon enough, she would. Of the seven main members of the Wickedly Weird Productions team, she and Misty Blaine were the two surviving women.

      The Annabelle Lee cast had been talkative—maybe because they all knew Jackson Crow already. Jackson’s appearance was a good thing. While Thor felt that talking with Clara Avery had been somewhat of a challenge, it had been easy, thanks to Jackson, to gain trust and a comfortable rapport with the three men.

      Now...

      Mr. and Mrs. Crowley.

      “Their name just had to be Crowley,” Mike murmured, bringing the pair in. Neither Jackson nor Thor responded and Mike added, “Crowley. You know—like Aleister Crowley. The satanist.”