CHAPTER FOUR #2
"Or if someone on the crew saw something they shouldn't have," James added. "Maybe the deal was going fine until one of the innocent crew members stumbled onto the transaction. Then everyone becomes a liability."
Twenty minutes later, the diver surfaced with confirmation that made Isla's stomach clench. "Got a body down here," his voice crackled through the surface radio. "Adult male, looks like he's been in the water several hours. Sending up a recovery basket now."
The process of bringing up a drowning victim was methodical and respectful, but it never got easier to watch.
The body that emerged from Lake Superior's depths was clearly one of the Northern Dawn's crew—he wore work clothes stained with engine grease and steel-toed boots, the kind of practical gear that commercial sailors favored.
His face was swollen from hours in the cold water, skin pale and waxy, but his wallet had survived immersion well enough to provide identification.
The leather was waterlogged, but the laminated driver's license was still legible.
"Arnold Jones," James read from the sodden license, water dripping from the plastic.
"Age forty-two, address in Two Harbors. Let me run him.
" He pulled out his phone, fingers moving quickly across the screen.
"Clean record, commercial fishing license, maritime safety certifications.
Looks like a legitimate crew member, not a smuggler. "
"So, probably one of the innocent ones," Isla said quietly.
But it was the medical examiner's preliminary assessment that transformed their understanding of the situation completely.
Dr. Patricia Henley had worked maritime fatalities for years, and her verdict was delivered with the clinical precision that came from examining too many violent deaths.
She was a small woman with steel-gray hair and latex gloves that snapped crisply as she worked.
"This man didn't drown," she said, peeling back the victim's work shirt to reveal wounds that made Isla's blood run cold.
"Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen.
Deep penetration, probably a fixed-blade knife with at least a six-inch blade.
He was dead before he hit the water. See here—no water in the lungs, no foam in the airways.
These wounds would have been rapidly fatal. "
Isla stared at the body, her mind racing through the implications.
Arnold Jones had been stabbed to death with a knife, multiple times, with enough force to penetrate deeply through muscle and potentially nick bone.
This wasn't a shooting that might be explained by rival smuggling operations or criminal disputes.
This was personal, intimate violence that required getting close enough to look your victim in the face, close enough to feel their last breath.
"Jesus," James breathed, studying the wounds. "Whoever did this was strong enough to overpower a commercial fisherman and skilled enough with a knife to kill efficiently. We're not just dealing with weapons smugglers—we're dealing with someone who's comfortable with extreme violence."
"Military background, maybe," Isla suggested, though something about the pattern bothered her.
"Or professional," James added. "Mob enforcer, cartel operative. Someone who's done this before."
Dr. Henley pointed to one of the wounds. "This one went right between the ribs. Angled upward toward the heart. That's not luck—that's training or experience."
Isla walked a few steps away, trying to piece it together.
"So our working theory: The Northern Dawn was carrying illegal weapons, probably for delivery to a buyer on the lakes.
They anchor somewhere to make the transfer.
Something goes wrong—either betrayal, unexpected arrival of a third party, or a crew member discovers what's happening.
Violence erupts. At least one crew member, Arnold Jones, is killed with a knife.
Others are potentially killed or fled. The killer takes some weapons but not all, cuts the anchor chain, and disappears. "
"Leaving us with a crime scene, a body, and a shipment of military weapons," James finished. "And no idea where the killer is now or who else might be dead."
"Or where the rest of the weapons went," Isla added.
James looked back at the Northern Dawn, its dark shape hulking against the harbor lights. "You said something earlier about this not being their last kill."
Isla nodded slowly. "Someone this capable, this violent, this comfortable with killing? They're not going to stop. Either they're going to try to sell those weapons, which means more criminal activity, or they're going to use them. Either way, we need to find them fast."
"The question is: are we looking for a smuggler who turned violent, or a violent person who saw an opportunity?"
"Does it matter?" Isla asked.
"For prosecution, maybe not. For tracking them down?" James met her eyes. "It matters a lot. A smuggler might go to ground, try to lie low until the heat passes. But someone who kills like this, with a knife, up close?" He shook his head. "They might be just getting started."
The wind picked up off the lake, carrying with it the smell of cold water and diesel fuel.
Somewhere out there, a killer was moving through the night with military-grade weapons and a demonstrated willingness to use lethal force.
The crime scene had evolved from a missing crew investigation to something far more sinister—a hunt for a predator who was both calculating and extremely dangerous.
And as Isla stood there, watching the medical examiner's team carefully document Arnold Jones's wounds, she had the sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.
The Northern Dawn had been carrying death in its cargo hold, and now that death had been released into the world, carried by someone who knew exactly how to use it.
The real investigation was just beginning.