OUTSIDE THE CAR, page 2
James had been the first person in Duluth to take her theories seriously, to see the pattern she'd identified in what everyone else dismissed as industrial accidents. When she'd first presented her timeline connecting Sarah Sanchez's death to Alex Novak's and the others, he hadn't looked at her like she was seeing connections that weren't there. Instead, he'd asked thoughtful questions, helped her refine her approach, backed her up when they brought it forward.
"He's here somewhere," Isla said, her gaze sweeping the maze of metal and machinery surrounding them. The conviction in her voice was born of months of study, countless hours poring over files and crime scene photos. "I can feel him watching, planning. The interviews spooked him—that's why there haven't been any incidents since Alex. He's lying low, but he's still here."
A container ship horn sounded across the water, its deep bass note reverberating through the steel structures around them. The port operated on its own rhythm, dictated by shipping schedules and weather patterns, tides, and seasons. Someone who had been killing here for years would understand that rhythm, would know how to move within it undetected.
"Maybe," James replied, his tone carefully neutral in the way that meant he was trying not to discourage her while also not entirely agreeing. "But standing out here in the cold isn't going to make him show himself any faster. You're running on fumes, Isla. You need rest, real food, maybe a conversation that doesn't revolve around murder."
The concern in his voice was genuine, tinged with something deeper that neither of them had quite acknowledged aloud. Their partnership had evolved over the months from professional collaboration to something more personal, marked by shared meals, late-night phone calls about cases, and the kind of easy companionship that came from facing danger together. The attraction was there, simmering beneath the surface of their professional relationship, but both were too careful, too aware of the complications, to act on it directly.
"The boot print came from Northern Star," Isla said, more to herself than to James, her mind still turning over the same facts that had consumed her for months. "I know it did. The timing matches, the location makes sense. But when we checked every employee's footwear—"
"He'd already switched boots by then," James finished, his voice holding the patience of someone who'd had this conversation multiple times. "Smart move for someone who's been at this as long as you think he has. Professional criminals adapt, especially ones who've managed to stay undetected for years."
Isla nodded absently, watching a security guard make his rounds near a cluster of warehouses. The man moved with the bored efficiency of someone going through familiar motions, his flashlight beam sweeping predictable patterns. The Lake Superior Killer had decades of experience making deaths look accidental, learning the rhythms and blind spots of waterfront security. He wouldn't have kept incriminating evidence lying around after leaving that print in the snow, especially not once he realized the FBI was treating Alex Novak's death as something more than an accident.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of approaching rain. Storm clouds were gathering over the lake, promising the kind of spring squall that could turn the harbor treacherous within hours. Weather like this would drive most people indoors, but it might also provide the perfect cover for someone who preferred to work unseen.
"What if we're missing something obvious?" Isla said suddenly, the thought crystallizing as she watched the guard disappear around a corner. "Sarah, Alex, all the others—they weren't random targets. He chose them for a reason. Location, timing, opportunity, sure, but what if there's something more? Something that made them specifically vulnerable?"
James considered this, his analytical mind already working through the possibilities. "You mean beyond just being alone at the wrong time? Some connection between the victims we haven't found yet?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it's simpler than that—maybe he knows their routines, their habits. Watches them long enough to predict when they'll be isolated." The idea sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the April wind. A predator who studied his prey, who planned each kill with meticulous care.
A fog horn sounded in the distance, low and mournful across the water. The harbor was settling into its nighttime rhythm—skeleton crews, automated systems, the kind of minimal supervision that would appeal to someone who had learned to move through industrial environments without leaving traces. Isla had studied the staffing patterns at every major facility along the waterfront, looking for gaps in coverage that might explain how someone could commit murder without witnesses.
"Everyone makes mistakes eventually," Isla said, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince James or herself. "He left that boot print at Alex's scene. That's our first real break in years of investigating. It means he's not infallible."
"Come on," James said, touching her elbow gently through the wool of her coat. "One beer, some food, and maybe we can talk through the victim profiles again with fresh eyes. Sometimes stepping back helps you see the forest instead of just the trees. The Claddagh’s got that corner booth free—I checked on my way over here."
Isla took one last look across the darkening waterfront, memorizing the positions of workers she could see, the patterns of light and shadow that might conceal a predator. A maintenance worker was checking readings on a bank of gauges near the main electrical station. A security guard was making his rounds with clockwork regularity. Normal people doing normal jobs, or was one of them something more dangerous?
Tomorrow she would return, and the day after that, until something broke loose in this case that had already consumed too much of her life. The Lake Superior Killer was out there, patient and careful, but everyone made mistakes eventually. She just had to be ready when he made his.
CHAPTER TWO
The radio crackled to life with a burst of static, cutting through the monotonous hum of the station heater. Coast Guard Petty Officer Steve McTavish's hand paused halfway to his coffee mug, fingers hovering over the chipped ceramic handle as he waited for the transmission to clear.
"Station Duluth, this is fishing vessel Mary Catherine." The voice that emerged from the speaker carried the gravelly weight of three decades on Superior's unforgiving waters. Captain Pete Brennan—a man who'd weathered November gales that would've sent younger men running for shore. "Got a drifter two miles northeast of the shipping channel. Small cargo ship, maybe a hundred-fifty feet. Dead in the water, no response to hails."
Steve abandoned his coffee entirely, the steam still curling lazily from its surface as he swiveled toward the navigation console. His fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up the digital charts that painted Lake Superior's depths in blues and grays. Drifters weren't uncommon in these waters—mechanical failures struck without warning, medical emergencies left vessels helpless, fuel pumps clogged with sediment at the worst possible moments. But anything adrift near the shipping lanes was a ticking clock. Two massive container ships were scheduled to transit this exact corridor within the next four hours, each one pushing thirty thousand tons through water that gave no second chances.
"Copy that, Mary Catherine. Coordinates?"
"Forty-six degrees, forty-seven point two north, ninety-two degrees, zero-four point eight west." Pete's voice maintained its professional cadence, but Steve had known him long enough to hear the underlying tension. "White hull, blue superstructure. Northern Dawn on the stern." A pause stretched across the airwaves, filled only with the whisper of radio static. "Steve, she's sitting completely dark. No stack smoke, no movement topside. Been watching her for twenty minutes now—not so much as a shadow crossing a porthole."
Steve's fingers moved with practiced efficiency, cross-referencing the coordinates against the real-time traffic display. A massive ore carrier—the kind that could swallow a football field—was making its ponderous way out from the Duluth docks right now, its navigation lights visible as pinpricks against the darkening shoreline.
"Acknowledged. Launching response boat. Can you maintain visual?"
"Roger that." Another pause, this one stretching longer, heavy with unspoken concern. "Steve... thirty years on this lake, you learn when something smells wrong. The way she's sitting in the water, the way the wind's pushing her—none of it adds up. Something's off with this one."
The words raised gooseflesh along Steve's arms, prickling beneath the heavy fabric of his uniform sleeves. Pete Brennan wasn't prone to dramatics or superstition. If he sensed something wrong, his instincts were usually dead-on.
Steve grabbed his gear bag from the locker, the familiar weight of rescue equipment settling against his shoulder. He pushed through the heavy steel door into the evening air, where the sun had disappeared an hour earlier, leaving the sky bruised with deep purples that faded incrementally into the black void above the lake. Navigation lights dotted the darkening water like terrestrial stars—the scattered white and red of fishing boats returning to harbor, the elegant arc of a pleasure craft's running lights, the distant industrial glow of a freighter making its way toward the Soo Locks.
The response boat's twin outboard engines coughed once, then roared to life with a satisfying growl that Steve felt in his chest. He cast off the mooring lines with quick, efficient movements honed by countless launches, then pushed the throttle forward. The bow lifted as the boat surged ahead, cutting through the light chop with determined purpose. As the dock lights receded behind him and the darkness of open water enveloped the hull, Pete's words circled through his mind like a mantra he couldn't shake:
Something's off with this one.
***
The Mary Catherine's spotlight appeared first—a harsh cone of white brilliance that carved through the gathering darkness like a surgical instrument. The beam swayed gently with the fishing boat's motion, painting fleeting illumination across the wave tops. As Steve closed the distance, throttling back the engines to a low rumble, the drifting vessel gradually materialized from the gloom—a Great Lakes cargo ship of the smaller class, her white hull streaked with rust trails that spoke of hard seasons on the water. She rode low, too low for a vessel that should be traveling light or empty. And there was something else, something that made Steve's trained eye narrow with concern: a noticeable list to starboard, maybe five degrees, enough to be clearly visible in the spotlight's glare.
"Pete, this is Coast Guard Response. I have visual. Any change?"
"Negative. Still completely dark." Pete's voice emerged from the radio with a tinny quality, stripped of warmth by the electronics. "Get a good look at her anchor windlass when you're close enough. That chain looks cut, not hauled proper."
Steve's stomach tightened into a cold knot. Ships didn't cut anchor chain—not unless something had gone catastrophically wrong. The equipment alone cost thousands to replace, and no captain made that call lightly. It meant desperation, panic, or something worse.
He brought the response boat alongside the Northern Dawn's starboard quarter, throttling down to idle, letting the momentum carry him the final few yards. His spotlight played methodically along the hull, revealing recent paint that gleamed wetly in the harsh illumination, hardware that showed regular maintenance rather than neglect—this was a working vessel, well-cared-for, not some derelict left to rot. A rope ladder hung from the rail fifteen feet above, its rungs swaying slightly in the light breeze that whispered across the water's surface.
"Northern Dawn, Northern Dawn, this is United States Coast Guard." Steve's voice carried across the gap, professional and firm. "Please respond on channel sixteen or show yourself on deck."
The silence that answered was absolute, broken only by the gentle slap of waves against both hulls and the whisper of wind through the cargo ship's rigging.
Steve secured his response boat with practiced efficiency, double-checking the fender placement to prevent damage to either vessel, then shouldered his gear bag and approached the ladder. He clamped his flashlight between his teeth, tasting rubber and salt, then began the climb. Hand over hand, boots finding purchase on the worn rope rungs, conscious of the dark water waiting below. Fifteen feet of vertical ascent that seemed to stretch longer in the darkness, until finally his gloved hand found the cold steel of the rail and he hauled himself over onto the deck.
Silence.
Not the normal silence of a vessel at rest—this was something different, something fundamentally wrong. Ships possessed their own symphony of mechanical sounds: the steady thrum of generators buried deep in their bellies, the whisper of ventilation systems cycling air through cramped spaces, the small creaks and groans of hull plates adjusting to the water's embrace, the distant ping of cooling metal. The Northern Dawn offered nothing. Every system had been shut down, leaving only the kind of absolute quiet that Steve associated with abandonment or death.
He pulled the flashlight from his mouth and swept its powerful beam across the forward deck, playing the light methodically from port to starboard, bow to stern, searching for any sign of the crew who should have been responding to his hails.
And froze.
Blood.
CHAPTER THREE
The Claddagh's warmth enveloped Isla like a familiar embrace as she settled into the worn leather booth that had become their unofficial office away from the office. The Irish pub's amber lighting cast everything in honey-colored tones, softening the hard edges of another frustrating day. Murphy had already delivered their usual order without being asked—a pint of Guinness for James, a glass of Jameson neat for her, and a promise that the shepherd's pie would be out in ten minutes.
"You know what the worst part is?" Isla said, wrapping her fingers around the whiskey glass. The amber liquid caught the light from the nearby fireplace, reminding her uncomfortably of the cases that kept her awake at night. "It's not that we don't have leads. It's that we have too many leads that all go nowhere."
James took a long pull from his beer and nodded grimly. "Forty-seven employee interviews at Northern Star alone. Background checks on every worker who's been there in the past two years. And nothing—absolutely nothing—connects any of them to that boot print."
The shepherd's pie arrived steaming, filling the air with the scent of lamb and herbs that should have been comforting. Instead, Isla found herself picking at the food, her mind still turning over the same facts that had consumed her for months. The Lake Superior Killer had managed to stay invisible for years, possibly decades, making deaths look like accidents with a precision that spoke to intimate knowledge of the waterfront.
"He's still out there," she said, more to herself than to James. "Watching. Waiting. The interviews spooked him into lying low, but he hasn't disappeared. Predators like this don't just stop—they adapt."
The pub's atmosphere was exactly what she needed after hours on the cold docks—the low murmur of conversation from other patrons, the clink of glasses, the steady presence of James across from her. Their booth in the corner provided privacy for the kind of case discussions that civilians didn't need to overhear, and Murphy had long ago learned not to hover when the two FBI agents were deep in conversation.
"Sarah Sanchez, Alex Novak, and how many others we haven't identified yet," James said, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "All made to look like industrial accidents. All discovered without witnesses. The pattern's clear enough once you know what to look for."
"But knowing the pattern and proving it are two different things." Isla took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn all the way down. "Every piece of evidence we have is circumstantial. Every connection we've drawn could be explained by coincidence. Any prosecutor would laugh us out of their office if we tried to build a case on what we have now."
The fire crackled in the stone hearth nearby, casting dancing shadows across the dark wood paneling that covered the pub's walls. Local memorabilia covered every available surface—photographs of fishing boats, certificates from maritime organizations, even a stuffed northern pike that Murphy claimed his grandfather had caught in Lake Superior back in 1962. It was exactly the kind of place where waterfront workers might come to unwind after their shifts, which made Isla wonder if their killer had ever sat in one of these very booths.
James's phone buzzed against the table, its vibration cutting through their conversation. He glanced at the display and frowned. "Coast Guard. At this hour?" He answered on the second ring, his voice shifting immediately into professional mode. "Sullivan."
Isla watched his expression change as he listened, the relaxed lines around his eyes tightening into something harder. His free hand reached for a napkin and began scribbling notes—coordinates, she realized, recognizing the pattern of numbers.
"How many missing?" James asked, his voice sharp with concern. "Any signs of violence?... Copy that. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
He ended the call and was already reaching for his jacket before the phone hit the table. "Unmanned cargo vessel found drifting two miles northeast of the shipping channel. Northern Dawn—Coast Guard boarded and found evidence of violence, but no crew. They're towing her into the marina now."
Isla was on her feet before he finished speaking, the whiskey and shepherd's pie forgotten. The familiar surge of adrenaline that came with a fresh crime scene was already coursing through her system, sharpening her focus and pushing away the fatigue of another long day. "Violence how? Blood?"
"Significant amounts, according to the boarding officer. Plus signs that the crew abandoned ship in a hurry—personal belongings scattered, equipment left running, ship's log missing." James dropped a twenty on the table, more than enough to cover their barely touched meals. "Could be piracy, could be something else entirely."
_preview.jpg)
