Deadly Fate (Krewe of Hunters #19)(36)

They were talking about incidents of horror and terrible things that plagued the soul.

And yet, what she wanted at that moment was to touch him and assure him that she knew—she knew from knowing him—that at every turn he’d done the right thing, and that he couldn’t blame himself for anything.

“You know Jackson Crow,” he said softly, looking back at her. “And you know about the Krewe of Hunters.”

“I know that they saved us on the ship and I know...” She broke off, feeling a little breathless.

Ghosts.

While many reports on the work done by the Krewe of Hunters had speculated on their unorthodox methods, none had ridiculed them—they had brought too many highly unusual cases to their conclusions.

They’d locked up a hell of a lot of bad guys.

“Yes, I know something about the Krewe,” she murmured.

Thor stared at her. Apparently, he’d decided just to explain—and she could take it or leave it.

“The last victim was a young woman named Mandy Brandt. She’d come to the Bureau and told us that her friend had been dating someone she found to be questionable. We had a zillion such reports at the time, but I believed Mandy—so did Jackson. So we started tracking the man she was talking about and it was Tate Morley. We even went after him right away, but...” He paused, and he looked out to sea again, shaking his head. “Not before he got Mandy.”

“And you feel responsible,” Clara said. “But...you said you and Jackson started right away, working on her information.”

“Not fast enough,” he said.

“I can only imagine how you feel. But you might have saved countless other young women. He was creating his own line of fairy-tale princesses. He could have killed for years and years.”

“Yes, we both know that,” Thor said. He offered her something of a wistful, rueful smile. “You see, we both knew Mandy.”

Clara nodded at that. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” She inhaled deeply. “And now this man you and Jackson caught...is out.”

She hadn’t heard Jackson returning, but he was right behind her.

“That’s what brought me,” he said, taking a seat again by her side. “I got the news about the killing of Natalie Fontaine at the hotel right after we received the reports that Tate Morley was out.”

“And the thing is...” Thor said, glancing at Jackson.

“We both had dreams about Mandy,” Jackson said.

“As if we were watching movies of the time we found her and shot Tate,” Thor said.

“So...you think that Mandy’s spirit came to you in dreams and warned you that Tate Morley was out and killing again, and you linked it with these murders?”

Jackson and Thor looked at one another again.

“Yes,” Jackson said.

“That’s about it,” Thor agreed.

“Oh.”

“We’re the only ones who think that, by the way,” Jackson told her.

They were waiting—waiting for her to speak.

“I just... Well, from what I’ve read...and seen,” she said, not able to forget coming across Amelia’s body in the snow, “these murders are very different. I mean, you two are the agents. You’ve been through years of working with killers...but this just seems the work of someone different.”

“Yes,” Thor agreed. “But, maybe not. Tate Morley was in prison for ten years. He escaped by coldly killing a doctor and walking out with his credentials.”

“He stabbed the doctor in the throat with a shank he managed to create from a ripped-out piece of toilet plumbing,” Jackson told her. “The Fairy Tale victims were strangled.”

“These victims were strangled before he took a knife to them, or whatever weapon or tool he used to cut them,” Thor said.

“The killer likes sensationalism,” Jackson noted.

“Like reality television,” Thor said.

“Theatricality,” Jackson said. He let out a breath and looked at Thor. “I just learned from the captain on the ship that the media already has a name for this guy. ‘The Media Monster.’”

Thor winced. “Great.”

“So, you really think that this might be the same man. Then if you saw him, you’d recognize him, right?” Clara asked.

“Yes,” Jackson said. “Unless...”

“Unless he’s disguised himself in some unknown way,” Thor said. “Then, of course, we might both be crazy. Tate Morley might be thousands of miles away.”

“Maybe not,” Clara said, having no real idea of what she was thinking at all. She could see that they were approaching Seward. She stood, watching the approaching shoreline. The different areas of the port were busy; the charming and colorful waterfront businesses were filled with shoppers and businessmen and women moving about on their workday.

There was no snow in the city; the temperature felt much warmer than the island, as well—perhaps somewhere between fifty and sixty.

It all seemed so normal. People were surely talking about the horrible and grisly murders. But they were distanced from them. They would be aghast at what had been done to the women, but it wouldn’t touch them intimately.

Parents would keep close watch on beautiful daughters. Husbands would watch their wives. They would all bitch and moan about the police and the FBI—and wonder how they had not yet caught such a horrid killer.