Deadly Fate. Heather Graham
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leather holster at the back of his waistband—Mike was in his apartment.
“Hell, you must have been downstairs when you called,” Thor said.
Mike grinned. “I was. I figured you had coffee—you always have coffee.”
Mike was a big guy with broad shoulders and cheekbones to match. His dad was Native American; his mom had come up to Alaska with her father when he’d worked the pipeline. Mike was one of ten kids, all of them tall and good-looking. Thor and he made a good, colorful team, Thor often thought. He actually had Aleut blood himself. It was from a great-grandmother, while the rest of his family had hailed from Norway and it showed. He was bronzed just because he loved the sun; his hair was lighter than flax and his eyes were a blue only a little darker than ice.
They’d been partners three years in Alaska. Thor had done time in both the New York City and Miami offices while Mike had worked in Chicago and DC. Both of them had asked for the Alaska assignment—a different kind of job, for the most part. They were members of the criminal task division; in the three years they’d been working, most of their cases had been a matter of doggedly following clues and collaborating with Canadian and other US agents.
They headed downstairs. Thor knew that Mike was going to drive—he had the official car and the keys. They both preferred their own driving.
“What time did Enfield call you?” Thor asked when they were on the road.
“Six. He just said shake a leg and get to the airfield, and he’d meet us there. Man, it doesn’t bode well, him calling like that—when we were due in anyway.”
Thor nodded, feeling uncomfortable. The reality of the dream had faded—in his field, nightmares occurred in the darkness and the light. He’d always known that you had to live with the losses as well as the triumphs. But his dad—who was still with the Alaska State Troopers—had once put it into perspective for him by noting, You’ll never stop the flow of evil that some men will do, but each time you save one innocent, you make it all worthwhile.
So he had dreams.
Nightmares.
He woke up and shook them off.
But now, the dream that had plagued him right before he had awakened that morning seemed like some kind of a foreboding.
That feeling increased when they reached the airfield and saw Special Director Reginald Enfield there, waiting for them.
Enfield was a solid, no-nonsense director—a good man in his office. He’d had a kneecap shot out and knew he wasn’t fit for fieldwork, but he could analyze a situation like few other men and collect invaluable information with his group of techs. That he was at the airfield meant they were onto something serious.
Enfield shook hands with the men as he reached them, his expression grim. “Your chopper is ready and waiting. You’re heading straight to Seward—there was a murder last night,” he told them.
Thor waited for him to continue. It wasn’t as if Alaska was immune to murder—far from it. According to reports by statisticians at the Bureau, Alaska was the most dangerous state for violent crime. Most of the time, murders were related to bar fights, cabin fever, drug or alcohol abuse and sometimes, domestic battles.
Thor had a feeling none of the above applied; if so, the local police or the state police would have been called in. Seward, Alaska, had a full-time population of three thousand plus, but tourism and the cruise industry could swell that number considerably. It was still a quaint and beautiful town—one usually loved by those who flocked to see the beauty of the nation’s largest, last-frontier state.
He realized they were going to have to ask questions and so he began with the obvious. “Sir, I’m sure you plan on giving us more. We’re being sent to Seward over a murder? Aren’t the local police and the state guys on it?”
“This one isn’t your typical murder,” Enfield said. “We’ve got agents headed here now from the DC area—it’s that much not your typical murder.”
“We have a serial killer on our hands?” Mike asked.
“Let’s pray that we don’t,” Enfield said. He glanced at Thor. “An old partner and friend of yours is on the way here. You remember Jackson Crow?”
Thor was pretty sure that his heart missed an entire beat.
He hadn’t thought about Jackson Crow in a long time, and had only seen him in his dreams.
“Sure, I remember Crow,” Thor said, hoping he sounded easy and casual. “Great agent. We worked together a decade ago.”
Enfield hesitated. “We don’t know yet if there’s any relation here or not, but...” He paused and then shrugged. “You remember, of course, the Fairy Tale Killer? Tate Morley?”
Now Thor felt as if his heart had fallen into the pit of his stomach.
“Of course I remember,” he said huskily.
“Well, he’s out.”
“He’s out?” Thor said, incredulous.
“Yeah. He escaped.”
Thor felt a surge of anger. He’d been afraid of something like this—he’d said so when he heard that Morley had been transferred for his good behavior. Morley had been incarcerated first in the Feds’ one supermax-security prison, but had then been transferred to max security and then a minimum-security prison—all over the last ten years or so.
Thor could never understand how the justice system allowed for such a thing to happen; the man’s ninety-nine-years-plus life sentence hadn’t been lessened by a parole board, and if he’d been left where he’d first been placed, escape would have been near impossible.
Enfield continued, “Seems he made himself a shank, got himself into the infirmary, stabbed a doctor and walked out easily in his white coat and with his credentials.”
“When did this happen?” Thor asked.
He was pretty sure that he was speaking normally, that he moved like a sane man. But in truth, he was going insane inside, his gut clenching and his body on fire.
“He busted out yesterday,” Enfield said. “He hasn’t had a lot of time to get here, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. Victim’s name is Natalie Fontaine. She was a producer for bad TV—bad being my opinion, of course—filming in the area. Well, Gotcha is very, very bad. Vacation USA is okay. Anyway, I knew about Morley’s case—everyone knew about him. I’m not sure he’s the one responsible here. But Jackson Crow will be coming in along with a few of his people, and you and Mike will be taking the lead with him. He seems like an all right guy, willing to listen to the local power. Says that he doesn’t know Alaska. You two do.” Enfield stared at them and added, “He must be something with the main powers that be—the calls I received came straight from the top.”
Thor was somewhat surprised that his old friend had the power to demand in on a case—and bring affiliates with him. But then, he’d heard about the “special” unit that Jackson headed beneath an enigmatic non-field agent named Adam Harrison. Very special. They even had their own offices.
Guys talked about it being the ghost-whispering-busting unit.
But jokes didn’t last long. His old partner’s team had solved too many cases to be considered a joke.
“You okay, Erikson?” Enfield asked.
Was he okay?
Hell, no. The Fairy Tale Killer was out. There was a murder in Seward that seemed to call for help cross-country.
He’d dreamed about Mandy and Jackson Crow.
Mandy was dead.
Jackson Crow was on the way.
Thor felt his sense of dread take hold again.
The Fairy Tale Killer might be back—in Alaska.
“Sir,”