Deadly Fate (Krewe of Hunters #19)(79)

“Aw, crap,” Mike said.

They began to stride in their direction and found a break in the trees.

And there she was.

Birds were flocking around the corpse. A timber wolf was moving in.

Mike reached for his gun and fired a shot into the air. The birds and the wolf moved off.

“I guess she wasn’t a killer herself,” Mike said.

“If...”

“If?” Mike asked.

“If that is Becca Marle.”

Thor walked toward the corpse. He winced as he hunkered down, and he thought about the display in the woman’s bedroom at the Alaska Hut.

He knew that Clara had been shocked by what she had seen. It had been hard for him to convince her that what she saw was a display and not real. But he’d known in an instant. He was far too familiar with the tinny scent of real blood. And here, in the woods, with the buzz of flies...

With the work of buzzards and insects and hungry wolves. Yes. The Alaskan wilderness creatures had been at the corpse.

But...

The killer had meant to display it...

Just like the tableau in Becca’s room at the Alaska Hut.

She lay on her one side, an elbow up, her face gone. Flesh had been stripped off her naked thighs and much of her body. Lumps...her organs and breasts...had been laid strategically around her, except that now...

Some parts had already been dragged away, a meal for hungry carnivores.

One daring and hungry blackbird remained, pecking at a bloody mound.

“Holy Christ!” Mike said, crossing himself.

The killer had found a “Ripper” victim.

This time, he’d been able to carry through with the deed.





14

“Kiss me one last time...

A whisper of memory

To the sweetness of the past

Love, my darling, is all that can last

Kiss me one last time...

I’m that whisper of memory

That rustle in the trees

Love, my darling, is all that can last

Kiss me in your heart

Locked away in the past

Where I shall be...

Oh, there in the stars, twinkling by night

Beautiful, bright, and there...in your heart.”

Clara finished her last love song as the ghost of Annabelle Lee; she hovered where she stood, as directed, and then made her way fluidly and swiftly to where Larry Hepburn—playing Annabelle’s widowed husband—stood waiting. She brushed her fingers against his cheek, placed a kiss like air on his lips, and turned and floated from the stage. She smiled as she exited stage left; Larry called out, reached out, and then fell upon his knees and began the song that would bring his new wife into his arms. It really was a beautiful finale.

Clara hurried off the stage, passing Connie Shaw, who gave her hand a squeeze and whispered, “Heartbreaking!”

The director—Tandy Larson, with whom Clara had worked before—would have a few notes for her, but she knew that she could sneak down to the audience where Jackson had been watching.

It had been nice to be greeted with an enormous wave of enthusiasm when she had arrived at the ship that afternoon; she’d felt almost like a prodigal daughter, as if the fatted calf would be slain for her. She quickly found out it was because a full rehearsal had been planned onstage that afternoon—and her understudy had realized, even as the ship sat at dock, that she wouldn’t be able to sail.

She’d gotten horribly seasick. Clara had been needed.

Of course, it was still nice to be needed. And it was wonderful, for the moment, to concentrate on the show, on music...movement, direction. To interact with an ensemble cast she loved.

Connie Shaw was doing well. She’d hugged Clara as if they’d known one another forever when Clara had arrived to take up residence in her cabin on the ship.

She was very grateful to be alive; worried that the killer had yet to be caught.

Of course, they were all worried. And they would remain that way. That, of course, hadn’t kept Ralph, Simon and Larry from quizzing her about Thor Erikson and teasing her. She had merely shaken her head at their antics.

Clara paused on her way to the backseats of the ship’s large theater, turning to observe as Larry and Connie Shaw finished up the play in one another’s arms.

It was a good production, she thought. Very charming, with songs that were not just right for the show, but catchy, as well. And the ending was bittersweet; it was about the memories of love that made it possible to love again.

She hurried to the back of the theater as the others came from the backstage areas to chat and applaud one another’s performances, and Tandy called for a break before notes.

She noted the beauty of the theater. By the early 2000s, when Celtic American had purchased the Fate, the ship had been all but abandoned and rusting in a shipyard in Liverpool. But she’d been painstakingly restored. The theater now had elegant balconies draped in velvet; the stage itself had been revamped for excellent lighting and acoustics. The antechamber to the theater was decked out with art nouveau and art deco posters, a handsome cherrywood bar and antique tables. The final evening of each voyage offered the Broadway-quality show and a true experience for those who had sailed.

Jackson stood as she neared him, clapping. “That last song...really beautiful,” he told her. “You’re going to create a few damp eyes out there when you perform it for your audience.”