CHAPTER ELEVEN
The fluorescent lights in the FBI field office conference room had taken on a particular quality that Isla had come to associate with exhaustion—that faint, almost imperceptible flicker that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the headache building behind her eyes.
The clock on the wall read twelve-forty-seven, and the remnants of a hurried lunch—a half-eaten sandwich from the vending machine and a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago—sat forgotten beside her keyboard.
James sat across the conference table, his flannel shirt wrinkled from the night they'd spent processing the Northern Dawn crime scene, his usually neat hair disheveled from running his hands through it too many times.
Between them lay the accumulated evidence of two maritime massacres—photographs, reports, witness statements, and the preliminary findings that had been trickling in all morning from the medical examiner's office.
"Walk me through it again," Isla said, staring at the timeline she'd constructed on the whiteboard.
Red markers indicated confirmed deaths, blue markers showed vessel locations, and yellow sticky notes contained the dozens of questions that remained unanswered.
"Northern Dawn leaves Thunder Bay yesterday morning.
Storm Runner leaves Knife River three days ago.
Both crews vanish without distress calls, both vessels found drifting, both were involved in smuggling operations. "
James leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking with the movement. "Different cargo, though. Northern Dawn was running weapons—military-grade hardware worth millions. Storm Runner was carrying meth, probably destined for distribution in the Iron Range or Duluth."
"Different cargo, different scale, different criminal networks.
" Isla tapped her pen against the table, a habit she'd developed when her mind was working through a problem.
"But the methodology is identical. No distress calls, which means either the attacks happened too fast for anyone to reach the radio, or—"
"Or the killer controlled the situation from the start," James finished. "Boarded without raising alarm, neutralized the crew before they could call for help."
Isla stood and moved to the window, staring out at the gray expanse of Lake Superior visible in the distance.
The water looked calm from here, deceptively peaceful, hiding the violence that had occurred on its surface.
"Both crews were killed on the water," she said quietly, more to herself than to James.
"Killed and dumped overboard, left for the lake to swallow. "
The thought triggered something in her mind—a connection she'd been trying not to make.
The Lake Superior Killer. The invisible predator she'd been tracking for almost two years, the one who made drownings look like accidents, who had possibly been operating for decades without detection.
Different methodology, certainly. The LSK was subtle, patient, his kills disguised as misfortune.
This new threat was the opposite: brutal, public, leaving bodies and blood behind.
But both operated on the same waters. Both understood how to make people disappear into Lake Superior's cold depths. Both moved through the maritime environment with a predator's instinct for vulnerability.
"You're thinking about him again," James said, his voice gentle. He'd learned to read her silences over their months of partnership. "The LSK."
Isla shook her head, forcing herself to focus.
"It's not him. Can't be. The MO is completely different.
The Lake Superior Killer makes deaths look accidental—head wounds consistent with falls, drownings that appear natural.
This..." She gestured at the crime scene photographs spread across the table.
"This is the opposite. Multiple stab wounds, systematic execution, bodies left floating where they'll be found.
It's almost like whoever's doing this wants us to know something violent happened. "
"Or doesn't care if we know," James said. "Because the victims are criminals who weren't supposed to be doing what they were doing. Who's going to investigate too hard when drug runners and arms smugglers turn up dead?"
It was the same logic Callahan had outlined during their interrogation—the perfect hunting ground, where victims couldn't report attacks and law enforcement had limited motivation to dig too deep.
Isla felt the familiar frustration building in her chest. Two killers, possibly operating on the same waters, exploiting the same vulnerabilities in the system.
Her phone buzzed against the table, and she glanced at the display. Coast Guard. "Rivers," she answered.
Lieutenant Commander Frank's voice came through, professionally crisp but with an undercurrent of strain.
"Agent Rivers, we've got more bodies. Dive team recovered two additional victims from the Northern Dawn search area, and we've got a hit on sonar that suggests at least one more in deeper water.
These ones have been in the lake longer—preliminary assessment suggests they may be from an earlier incident. "
Isla's grip tightened on the phone. "Earlier incident? How much earlier?"
"Hard to say until we get them to the ME, but based on decomposition and water temperature, we're looking at days, maybe a week. Could be from one of those other vessels Callahan mentioned—the ones that disappeared before the Northern Dawn."
James was watching her face, reading the shift in her expression. Isla ended the call and turned to him, her jaw set with the determination that came when a case began revealing its true scope.
"More bodies," she said. "Some of them older than the Northern Dawn massacre. They're bringing them in now."
"Christ." James ran a hand through his hair, adding to its already disheveled state. "How many?"
"Two confirmed, possibly more. Frank thinks they might be from one of Callahan's other missing vessels." Isla gathered her jacket from the back of her chair, the familiar weight of her service weapon settling against her hip as she moved. "I want to see them. See the wounds for myself."
"The coroner's office?"
"The coroner's office," Isla confirmed. "I need to understand how this person kills. The precision Dr. Henley described on the Northern Dawn victims—that's not random violence. That's training. If we can see more examples, maybe we can start building a real profile."
James was already on his feet, reaching for his own jacket.
Outside the window, the gray sky had darkened with approaching clouds, and the first drops of spring rain were beginning to streak the glass.
Somewhere beneath those calm waters, the lake was giving up her dead—victims of a predator who had been hunting these waters longer than anyone had realized.
"Let's go," Isla said. "The dead are waiting."