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And now here she lay, a beauty like Snow White. But no kiss would awaken her.
He turned to Jackson, who was kicking the gun from the killer’s grip, checking to see if he was dead; he was not. He was still breathing.
“Saved my life—and his,” Jackson said.
Thor was vaguely aware of Jackson getting on his phone, calling for medical assistance and backup.
Then the whole scene began to fog up and fade.
It was a dream that came to him again and again; a memory that played itself out in his mind when he was sleeping, when he was vulnerable. Over time it had come less and less, but sometimes, like now, it would return like the blade of a knife, digging into his mind as if piercing his flesh.
Tonight, however, Mandy’s eyes opened. And she looked at him with that beautiful and tremulous smile of hers. “Thor,” she said.
“Mandy!”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “You mustn’t let it happen again,” she told him softly.
He was dreaming; he knew that he was dreaming. He’d relived the scene a thousand times over.
And he’d wondered every time how he and Jackson and a slew of techs had managed to be just that little bit too far behind the killer...
No, he blamed it on himself. And maybe Jackson, just a little. Mostly it was his own fault. He should have known. They should have known. They shared a strange sense of...intuition, and they should have realized from the descriptions they’d received, from their gut sense of the past and time and purpose and...
Mandy had died anyway.
In his dream, he said, “Every day, Mandy, every day of my life, I still try to catch the killers, the bad guys, the sick, the evil... I am so sorry...”
She pressed a finger to his lips and sat up, then said softly, “No fault, Thor, no fault on your part. You two...you believed me, you investigated, you discovered the truth. No fault. But it’s happening again. This time, Thor...this time, you must stop him.”
She stroked his cheek; her eyes were immense on his...
And then his alarm went off with a jarring sense of reality and he woke up, bolting to a sitting position, reaching for the offending noise box to silence it.
He lay there for a moment; the dream had been so real he felt as if he could still smell the scent of Mandy’s perfume on the air.
But, of course, he could not. He glanced at the other side of the bed. It was empty. As always. He and Janet had split up months ago and since then, he’d never brought anyone home.
He rose and headed to the kitchen of his Anchorage apartment, poured a cup of coffee from the brewer that was set for 6:30 a.m. every morning and walked out to the living room. Large windows all across the far wall gave him great views of the city.
People had a tendency to think of Alaska as the frozen frontier.
Sometimes, he wished it was nothing but a frontier filled with ice.
But Anchorage was a large, sprawling metropolis—perhaps not on the same level as NYC or Chicago, but it was still a thriving city with well over three hundred thousand residents, almost half the population of the entire state. The great thing about the apartment was it offered him a place to stay in the city—and have this incredible and majestic view of the white-tipped Chugach Mountains rising in the distance—without having to live here full-time.
Thanks to his enterprising antecedents, his family owned a sprawl of property between Anchorage and Seward, a vast tangle of family homes, a horse farm and a sled dog–breeding facility. His sister and her husband managed the estate, so he could live in both worlds—he even had a pair of the best dogs anyone could ask for.
He was, he knew, a damned lucky man.
Albeit a haunted one, because he could never shake certain images...
Lucky, he told himself firmly. Every man out there, every woman, too, lived with things that tore at them.
He shook off the feelings the dream had wrapped around him.
In his free time, he could head out to what was still pristine wilderness. He could spend countless hours in the national parks and encounter wildlife like he could in few other places.
He wasn’t a hunter. The only way he shot things in his spare time was with a camera. His day-to-day life had enough to do with violence.
He heard his cell phone ringing and headed back into the bedroom to snatch it up off his bedside table. His partner, Mike Aklaq, was on the other line.
“You ready, friend?”
“If you call standing in my shorts, drinking coffee and looking out windows ready, then I’m ready.”
“Cool. You’re always Mr. Early. Today I’m on the move. Coming to get you—got a call to rush it this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Just hop in the shower quick. We’re wanted down the road in Seward.”
“What’s going on?”
“Quit talking and shower. Put on something more than your briefs—Special Director Enfield will meet us at the airport.”
“Airport? Seward isn’t even a three-hour drive and only private—”
“Helicopter is waiting for us. I’m almost there. Hey, I’m pretty sure I’m along for the ride on this. Enfield thinks you’re the man for this situation.”
“What the hell is the situation?”
“I don’t even know yet. Just get cracking, eh?”
Thor didn’t say anything more; he hung up and hurried to get ready.
He managed a shave and shower in less than ten minutes. When he emerged—in his blue suit, Glock in the little 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,” he asked Enfield, “why would anyone believe that the murder in Seward might have been committed by the Fairy Tale Killer? Was the victim laid out to look like a princess—like Morley’s victims?”
“No,” Enfield said. “Like I said, we’re not sure it’s the same man—the display of the victim was completely different. But the Fairy Tale Killer is out there somewhere. I have all the information in your folders in the chopper. You can read on your way. Just trust me—the Fairy Tale Killer may not be at work up here, but this isn’t your usual murder, not in any way, shape or form. God help you—you’d better catch this monster fast.”
* * *
Clara Avery came to an abrupt halt.
She’d been running, running, running through the snow, well aware that her very life depended on reaching the Alaska Hut before...
Before the killer caught up with her.
Her breath sounded like an orchestra to her own ears; her lungs burned as if they were ablaze with an inner wildfire.
Even as she came to a dead stop, she felt the thunder of her heart.
It was the blood, the blood spattered over the snow, that brought her to the abrupt halt.
