Deadly Fate. Heather Graham
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ferry approached the rugged terrain of the island. There were no roads here that allowed for cars—the ferry gave transport to snowmobiles and dogsleds, the only conveyances that could bring supplies to the island.
Pity that it was privately held; it should have been part of the national park system—a little piece of crystal heaven for the world to enjoy. It was elevated to such a height that even in summer, when the average mean temperature of Seward hovered around sixty degrees, there was often snow on the ground. Snow also covered the many peaks that rose in haphazard beauty here and there, dotted with crystal lakes, birds and animals finding refuge among them.
The island wasn’t owned by the government or the public; it was the property of an absentee landowner, Marc Kimball, oil baron and Wall Street phenomenon. Enfield had assured Thor that Kimball had been advised via his assistant—a very soft-spoken woman named Emmy Vincenzo, who Enfield hoped had truly comprehended the severity of his message—that Natalie Fontaine had been murdered and police and FBI would be headed to the island in her stead. Kimball had rented the island and its properties out to Natalie Fontaine and her Wickedly Weird Productions, and was expecting their film crew this morning.
Thor had read the folder that had been left for him on the chopper to Seward—and listened to Misty Blaine’s panicky and barely coherent explanation of the day of filming that had been planned. None of it was good; all of it added ridiculousness to what was already bizarre, gruesome and horrible.
As far as the film company, Wickedly Weird Productions, went...
To be fair, Thor conceded, some of their reality TV was interesting. They did shows that dealt with roadside diners, special tours that no one should miss and unusual cities or areas in the United States. He had a feeling that the real powers that be at the film studios loved history and travel—but they also needed to make money.
That meant that some of their shows were, at best, juvenile.
Those were the programs that were mostly popular with a young crowd—the kind of viewers who found fart jokes hilarious and also seemed to enjoy the distress or humiliation of those caught in the wheels of their “Gotcha!” factory.
Wickedly Weird Productions had rented two of the main properties on Black Bear Island. They included the Mansion, a sumptuous house that had begun its existence as a log cabin only to become something of a modern-day castle, and the Alaska Hut, a “rustic” lodge with eight or nine bedrooms, a huge living room, kitchen, dining room and expansive porches.
The crew was supposedly filming a piece on the Celtic American Cruise Line’s entertainment venues—that’s what the cast members from the ship believed, and what they thought they were signing release forms for. However, the real plan for the day had been to film a segment for their show Gotcha.
Other agents and the Alaska State Troopers were still busy going through procedure in Seward; dealing with the crime scene units, possible witnesses, hotel staff and more. But Thor and Mike and three officers were on this trail—hoping to find that Natalie’s crew and the cast of the Fate were patiently waiting for their leader or already in the midst of filming.
In short, that they were all alive and well.
And it might be very difficult to figure that out.
Because, according to Misty Blaine, they were going to find a scene of carnage—blood and destruction—whether it was real or not.
Misty had supplied them with the file folder on the day’s intended shoot. Wickedly Weird Productions had filled the Mansion and the Alaska Hut with bloody mock-murder scenes. Scenes meant to terrify the Fate cast. Of course, before anyone succumbed to their terror—the film crew would jump out and scream, “Gotcha!”
“Almost there,” Thor heard. He turned around. Lieutenant Bill Meyer, with the Alaska State Troopers, approached them.
“We’ve got a storage shed near the docks,” Bill told them. “We don’t have any permanent force here—a good majority of the year, no one is out here at all. But the owner paid for the snowmobiles we keep. There’s been trouble before, of course. One rush to the hospital. Wild party and a man wound up outside naked and nearly froze to death. Other than that...let’s see, alcohol poisoning, a fight, one time a break-in...mostly, people behaving badly. Not lethally.”
“Thanks,” Thor said. He liked the cops he and Mike were working with—then again, he liked cops in general. His father had taught him from a young age that most were decent and hardworking and doing their best. Only a few were assholes—which he assumed was true in any vocation. Bill Meyer was a good guy, he knew. They’d worked together before. Bill had been assigned to Anchorage for a year and he’d spent many of his off-hours finding the down-and-outers and trying to get them help.
The Coast Guard cutter arrived at the one long dock the island offered. Captain Filmore handed out walkie-talkies to Thor, Mike, and Bill Meyer and his men, instructing them to keep close contact.
“There’s no telling what you’ll encounter, but...”
“We’re not going to be meeting an army,” Mike said.
“But, a strong man with some lethal weapons,” Thor said. “Perhaps meeting up with a number of accomplices? Thing is, to escape the hotel security, it had to be someone who appeared to be part of the hotel staff. You didn’t have just anyone doing that. You had someone with an extremely sharp weapon—and the strength to make that weapon cut through flesh and bone.”
Someone who might not even be on the island—who might be chopping off more heads back in Seward.
Then again...
They might find a slew of dead right here. Oh, wait. They definitely would; he just hoped the dead were all mannequins and stage props.
“Yeah. Anyway, watch your backs,” the captain said.
“Will do,” Meyer murmured. Thor and the others nodded.
Ten minutes later, they were on the snowmobiles, headed to the Mansion. And then another ten minutes, riding through the snow that almost continually covered the island, brought them to their destination—and a scene of utter chaos.
Bodies strewn here and there, blood sprayed everywhere.
Thor hunkered down by the first body.
He looked up at Mike. “Mannequin,” he said.
Bill Meyer had hurried on to another. “Fake blood,” he called.
Thor moved through the downstairs, stopping at each body—it was all part of the staged scene that the assistant producer had told them about.
“Someone thought that this would be funny?” Mike asked with disgust.
“Apparently,” Thor said, rising after his inspection of the last “corpse.”
“They just had to come to Alaska,” Bill Meyer muttered.
“Thing is,” Thor said, “where is the film crew? And where is the cast?”
“Alaska Hut—or here, somewhere, in all this. I’ll take the upstairs,” Mike said. “We may find real bodies yet. Fellows? A hand?” he asked the state police officers.
They nodded and started to follow him up the stairs to the many rooms above. “Man, this is sick!” one of them muttered.
“I’m on the exterior,” Thor said.
Near the top landing, Mike nodded.
Thor headed out. There were no snowmobile tracks leaving the Mansion, but there had been precipitation in the last few hours, so a path might have easily been covered.
He kept looking. And that was when he found the trail of footsteps.
And he began to follow it.
* * *
The Alaska Hut, the Alaska Hut... Help would be there, all she had to do was reach it...
It might be summer, but