CHAPTER TEN
In the dream, she was always back at North Pier, two weeks ago, her weapon drawn and her voice steady as she'd confronted Robert Brune in the shadows.
But instead of running like he had in reality, he smiled at her—that same cold, knowing smile she'd seen for just an instant before he'd fled—and stepped forward.
Closer. Always closer, no matter how many times she pulled the trigger, no matter how many rounds she fired into his chest.
The lake whispers, he'd say in her dream, his voice like grinding metal. It told me about you, Agent Rivers. It told me you'd come.
And then his hands would be on her throat, his weathered fisherman's fingers surprisingly strong, and she'd feel herself being pulled backward, into water that shouldn't be there, into depths that opened beneath the pier like a mouth—
Isla sat up in bed, her heart hammering, her FBI-issued Glock already in her hand though she didn't remember reaching for it.
The familiar weight was grounding, a tether to reality.
Her apartment was dark and empty. The only sound was the distant hum of the building's heating system and the occasional creak of settling wood.
She set the weapon on her nightstand with shaking hands and moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face.
Her reflection in the mirror looked haunted—amber eyes too wide, dark circles beneath them growing more pronounced each day, the faint freckles across her nose standing out starkly against her pale complexion.
Her dark hair was matted from restless sleep, escaping from the braid she'd worn to bed.
Three years in Duluth, and she'd never had dreams like this.
Even after the worst cases—after finding Sarah Sanchez's body floating by that shipping container, after processing scenes that would haunt her for years—she'd always been able to compartmentalize, to keep the work separate from her sleep.
But Robert Brune had gotten under her skin in a way no other case had.
Maybe because she'd seen his face. Maybe because she'd been close enough to smell the lake water on his clothes, close enough to see the absolute certainty in his eyes when he'd looked at her.
Close enough to stop him, and she'd hesitated for just a fraction of a second—professional protocol demanding she give him a chance to surrender—and he'd disappeared into the shadows like smoke.
Isla returned to her bedroom and pulled on workout clothes.
If she wasn't going to sleep, she might as well do something productive.
The building had a small fitness center in the basement, usually empty at this hour.
She could run on the treadmill until exhaustion finally dragged her under, or until her shift started at seven, whichever came first.
Her phone buzzed just as she was lacing her running shoes. 3:14 AM. Nobody called with good news at 3:14 AM.
"Rivers."
"Agent Rivers, this is Deputy Marshal Tom Crawford with USMS." The voice was male, younger, humming with the kind of excitement that came from making a significant arrest. "I'm calling because we have Robert Brune in custody.
Picked him up about an hour ago near the Canadian border.
SAC Channing wanted you notified immediately. "
Isla's breath caught. Her exhaustion evaporated in an instant, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so intense it made her dizzy. "You're sure it's him?"
"Suspect matches the photo—white male, early sixties, grizzled beard, approximately five-ten. He fled on foot when officers approached, which triggered the apprehension. Currently being transported to the Duluth detention center. Should arrive within the next two hours."
Two hours. Isla could be at the detention center, could be there when they brought him in, could finally see his face and know with absolute certainty that the Lake Superior Killer was in custody.
"I need to see him," she said, already moving toward her closet for clean clothes. "As soon as he arrives, I want to be there."
"That's why I'm calling. Marshal Barrett wanted to make sure you had advance notice. She knows this is your case, Agent Rivers. Your identification made this whole thing possible."
Isla ended the call and stood for a moment in her dark bedroom, trying to process the information. They had him. After two weeks of false sightings and near misses, after countless hours of searching and hoping and dreading, Robert Brune was finally in custody.
The relief should have been overwhelming.
Instead, Isla felt something closer to disquiet, a small voice in the back of her mind whispering that it couldn't be this easy.
Brune had evaded capture for decades, had slipped away from her at North Pier with the ease of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
Would he really have let himself be caught fleeing on foot near a border crossing?
She pushed the doubt away. The Marshals knew what they were doing. They'd identified a suspect matching Brune's description who'd fled from law enforcement—that was textbook fugitive behavior. Of course it was him.
Isla showered quickly, her mind already organizing the questions she'd need to ask once Brune was processed.
The murders he'd committed, the victims they'd identified, the patterns she'd uncovered.
And most importantly: where had he been for the past two weeks?
Had he been planning another killing before they'd caught him?
Her phone buzzed again at 4:52 AM, just as she was pulling on her blazer. A text from an unknown number, but with an attachment—a photograph. Isla opened it, her pulse quickening with anticipation.
The image showed a man in handcuffs, flanked by two U.S.
Marshals in their distinctive tactical gear.
The suspect was white, early sixties, with a grizzled gray beard and weathered features that spoke of decades spent outdoors.
He wore a heavy winter coat and work boots, and his expression was sullen but not particularly concerned.
Isla stared at the photograph, zooming in on the man's face, studying every detail with the intensity that had made her one of the Bureau's better profilers.
And felt her stomach drop.
It wasn't him.
The build was wrong—this man was heavier than Brune, his shoulders broader, his face rounder despite the beard.
The eyes were wrong too, set closer together, without that flat, dead quality she'd seen when she'd confronted Brune at North Pier.
And there—she zoomed in further—the nose had been broken at some point and healed crooked, a detail that didn't match any of the descriptions they had on file.
This wasn't Robert Brune. This was just another scared old man who'd run from police and happened to match a general description.
Isla's phone rang immediately, and she answered before the second ring. "It's not him."
Crawford's excitement had dimmed considerably. "You're sure? I mean, the description—"
"I'm sure. I've seen Brune's face up close.
This isn't him." Isla's voice was flat, professional, hiding the crushing disappointment that threatened to overwhelm her.
"Release him with an apology and our thanks for his cooperation.
And tell the Marshal's office that when you get credible sightings, I need to see photographs before full mobilization.
We can't afford to waste resources on suspects who don't match. "
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, Agent Rivers. We really thought—"
"I know. Thank you for trying." Isla ended the call before he could apologize again.
She stood in her apartment's small living room, watching the sky gradually lighten beyond her windows as false dawn approached.
Lake Superior stretched toward the horizon, dark and restless under December's heavy clouds.
Somewhere out there—or maybe not out there at all, maybe right here in Duluth, hiding in plain sight—Robert Brune remained free.
The dream came back to her unbidden: his weathered hands around her throat, his voice like grinding metal. The lake whispers. It told me about you.
Isla shook her head, forcing the image away.
Dreams weren't premonitions. They were just her subconscious processing trauma and stress and the weight of an unsolved case.
Brune didn't have supernatural powers. He was just a man—a dangerous, skilled man who knew the area intimately, but still just a man.
They'd catch him eventually. It was only a matter of time.
Her phone rang again at 5:03 AM, and this time when Isla saw James's name on the screen, her stomach clenched with dread. He wouldn't be calling this early unless something had happened.
"Tell me," she said by way of greeting.
James's voice was grim. "We've got another body in the steam tunnels.”