The realization sent something cold through his chest that had nothing to do with the bitter air whipping off Lake Superior.Yesterday's interview had been manageable—routine questions, predictable procedures, the kind of law enforcement theater he'd navigated successfully for years.But this was different.This was systematic.This was dangerous.
Through the building's frost-covered windows, he could see her moving between tables laden with files, her dark ponytail swinging as she consulted what appeared to be a detailed list.Even from this distance, he could read the purposeful efficiency in her movements.This wasn't random questioning designed to gather general information.This was a targeted investigation.
She knew something.
A gust of wind sent snow devils spiraling across the yard, temporarily obscuring his view of the federal agents' activities.When the air cleared, he could see Agent Sullivan joining Rivers at one of the tables, both of them studying documents with the kind of intense focus that suggested they were working from specific intelligence rather than fishing for leads.
His hands, steady despite the cold, adjusted the tension on the cable he'd been pretending to inspect for the past twenty minutes.Forty-three years at Northern Star had taught him the value of appearing busy while conducting surveillance—supervisors rarely questioned workers who looked engaged in legitimate tasks, and the rhythmic motions of routine maintenance provided perfect cover for extended observation.
The morning interviews had followed a pattern he'd been monitoring from various positions around the yard.Men entered the building looking nervous and confused.Twenty to thirty minutes later, they emerged with expressions of relief that suggested their encounters with federal law enforcement had gone better than expected.But he'd also noticed something else—a systematic progression through the employee roster that suggested the agents were working from a carefully refined list.
They weren't interviewing everyone.They were interviewing specific people.
Through the window, Rivers consulted her paperwork and drew what appeared to be a line through another name.The casual gesture sent adrenaline flooding through his system.She was eliminating suspects, narrowing her focus with each conversation.Which meant that sooner or later, probably sooner, his name would come up on her list of people who warranted closer examination.
A younger version of himself might have panicked.The impulsive twenty-one-year-old who'd started at Northern Star might have considered running, disappearing into the vast wilderness that surrounded Duluth, abandoning four decades of careful identity construction for the uncertain safety of anonymity.
But the Shipwrecker had learned patience over the years.Panic led to mistakes, and mistakes led to capture.Better to watch, to evaluate, to understand the scope of the threat before deciding on a response.
He moved to a position that offered a better view of the building's main entrance, timing his movement to coincide with the passage of a crane carrying a load of structural steel.The massive machine provided temporary concealment while he relocated to a spot behind the paint storage facility, where he could observe both the federal command post and the main personnel office without being easily noticed.
From this new vantage point, he could see more details of Rivers' operation.The woman was methodical, he had to admit.Professional.The kind of investigator who built cases through systematic evidence collection rather than intuitive leaps.It was a approach that had served her well in whatever previous assignment had brought her to Duluth, and it was the kind of competence that made her genuinely dangerous.
The boot print.
The thought struck him with sudden clarity.That was what had brought them here, what had transformed Alex Novak from another successful accident into the beginning of a federal investigation.He'd been careful about most things—timing, method, victim selection—but he'd grown careless about trace evidence.Too confident in the lake's ability to wash away the small details that connected him to his work.
Rivers had found that connection, followed it back to its source, and was now systematically working through everyone who might have left that impression in the ice.Given the size and wear pattern, combined with the timeline of the shipyard's employee records, she probably had a manageable list of suspects.And his name was undoubtedly on it.
The question was whether his interview yesterday had satisfied her curiosity or merely postponed more intensive scrutiny.His answers had been consistent with his established persona—long-term employee, reliable worker, man focused on job security and family obligations.The boots he'd worn bore no resemblance to the ones that had touched the ice where Alex died.His demeanor had projected the right mixture of cooperation and confusion.
But Rivers was the kind of investigator who followed evidence rather than impressions.If she'd documented the specific details of every boot print she'd photographed during yesterday's interviews, she would eventually realize that none of them matched her crime scene evidence, which would lead her to the logical conclusion that her killer had been wearing different footwear than what he'd presented during official questioning.
The thought should have troubled him more than it did.Instead, he found himself almost admiring her methodology.After years of dealing with local law enforcement that rarely looked beyond the obvious explanations, it was almost refreshing to encounter someone who approached investigation with genuine skill and intelligence.
Almost.
Through the building's windows, he could see Rivers examining what appeared to be photographs—probably the boot print impressions she'd collected during interviews.Her expression was focused, analytical, the look of someone solving a puzzle through careful comparison of details.Sullivan stood beside her, occasionally pointing to specific areas of the images, their partnership displaying the kind of seamless coordination that came from months of working complex cases together.
The afternoon shift change brought fresh workers onto the yard, their movements creating opportunities for him to adjust his position without drawing attention.He moved again, this time to a location near the dry dock facilities that offered an unobstructed view of the federal building's parking area.If Rivers and Sullivan were planning to leave for the day, he wanted advance warning of their departure.
But they showed no signs of concluding their work.If anything, their activities suggested they were settling in for extended investigation.More files were being spread across their makeshift workspace.More photographs were being arranged and compared.More names were being crossed off what he was increasingly certain was a suspect list that included his own identity.
The wind shifted, carrying the sound of Lake Superior's ice groaning under pressure from the open water beyond the harbor.The lake was calling to him, speaking in the ancient language of current and temperature that he'd learned to read over decades of hunting along its shores.But the message wasn't clear yet.The signs weren't aligned for decisive action.
Wait, the lake seemed to whisper.Watch.Learn what they know before deciding how to respond.
He'd survived this long by listening to those whispers, by understanding that patience was often more valuable than action.The lake had been his partner for over thirty years, providing both the means and the cover for activities that sustained something deep in his soul.It had never failed him when he'd followed its guidance, never let him down when he'd trusted its wisdom over his own impulses.
But it had also never been tested by someone like Isla Rivers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Helen Rodriguez pulled her wool coat tighter against the bitter January wind as she made her way along the familiar shoreline path, her breath forming small white clouds that dispersed quickly in the arctic air.At sixty-seven, she'd developed a rhythm to these daily walks that had sustained her through the first lonely months of retirement—decades of teaching third grade had ended abruptly when the school district's budget cuts forced her into early retirement, leaving her with too much time and too few ways to fill it.
The frozen expanse of Lake Superior stretched endlessly before her, its surface transformed into a white wilderness that bore little resemblance to the deep blue waters she'd admired during warmer months.Snow had drifted against the rocky shoreline, creating sculptural formations that caught the afternoon light and threw it back in crystalline fragments.This was her favorite time of day for walking—late enough that most of the morning joggers and dog walkers had finished their routines, early enough that she could complete the two-mile circuit and return home before the sun began its inevitable slide toward another early winter dusk.
The solitude had become precious to her over the past eight months.After decades of classroom noise and playground chaos, the silence of the winter lake felt like a gift.Here, she could think without interruption, could process the strange mixture of relief and loss that had defined her retirement.No more lesson plans or parent conferences, no more playground supervision or standardized testing preparation.Just the steady crunch of her boots on packed snow and the distant sound of ice shifting under pressure from currents she couldn't see.
