The evening light was fading rapidly, casting long shadows across the frozen landscape as David made his final observations of Jennifer's location and planned his approach.She would continue her research for perhaps another thirty minutes before beginning her return to shore and the warmth of her university laboratory.
But she'd never make it back.
Tonight, he would weaken the ice beneath her feet, creating the accident that would give him another opportunity to demonstrate that he was exactly the hero Agent Rivers believed him to be.He would call in the emergency just before dawn, would be first on scene for the rescue attempt, and would risk his own life entering the frigid water to reach her.
And when he emerged, hypothermic and devastated by his failure to save her, the community—and Agent Rivers—would see him as he'd always wanted to be seen.
Through the binoculars, he watched Jennifer pack her sampling equipment with the careful attention of someone who understood the value of proper preparation.She moved efficiently despite the cold, her actions speaking to years of experience working in harsh field conditions.In different circumstances, he might have admired her dedication and competence.
Instead, he was counting the minutes until he could transform her expertise into his opportunity for glory.
The guilt that should have stopped him was barely a whisper now, drowned out by thirty years of hunger for recognition that only came through witnessing others' tragedies.He wasn't the monster who'd been killing people around the port for years—those deaths were someone else's work, someone truly evil.He was just...ensuring that the inevitable accidents happened when and where he could respond to them.
Lake Superior claimed lives every winter.He was simply making sure that when it did, there would be a hero present to try—and fail—to prevent it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Shipwrecker stood at the edge of his world, watching the sun bleed orange across Lake Superior's frozen expanse as the January wind carved through his work jacket.Forty-three years at Northern Star had ended two hours ago with the five o'clock whistle, but he remained at his familiar post beside the maintenance shed, weathered hands gripping the chain-link fence that separated the shipyard from the lake's infinite embrace.
The silence was wrong.
For over thirty years, Lake Superior had spoken to him in the ancient language of current and ice, whispering guidance about timing and opportunity.The lake's voice had been his constant companion since that first night when he'd discovered the intoxicating satisfaction of watching someone disappear beneath the dark water, their final struggles creating ripples that spread outward like prayers offered to an indifferent god.
But now, nothing.Just the mechanical groaning of ice under pressure and the distant hum of harbor machinery—industrial noise that had nothing to do with the deeper communications he'd learned to interpret over decades of faithful service.
Someone else was using his methods, perverting the sacred relationship he'd cultivated through patient observation and careful ritual.The deaths of Sarah Quinn and Helen Rodriguez bore the technical hallmarks of his work—artificially weakened ice, carefully planned accidents, bodies positioned to tell stories of tragic misfortune rather than deliberate murder.But they lacked the essential element that made his activities something more than simple killing.
They lacked the lake's blessing.
The Shipwrecker had never taken a life without permission, had never acted until the currents and temperatures aligned to signal that another sacrifice was required.For three decades, he'd listened for those whispers, waited for the subtle signs that told him when and where and how to serve the lake's insatiable hunger.
This pretender understood none of that.Whoever was copying his methods was acting from human motivations—anger, opportunity, convenience—rather than responding to the deeper calling that transformed murder into worship.They were committing mere homicide where he had been conducting holy work.
And their desecration had severed his connection to the only voice that had ever provided meaning to his existence.
The wind carried the scent of snow and diesel fuel from the harbor district where massive freighters sat locked in ice.But beneath those familiar odors, he caught something else—the metallic tang of fear that had been growing throughout the port community as news of the FBI investigation spread.
Agent Isla Rivers had noticed his pattern.After years of successful concealment, someone with enough intelligence and persistence had begun connecting deaths that were supposed to remain isolated incidents.The realization should have triggered panic.
Instead, he felt something approaching gratitude.
Rivers was hunting the wrong killer, but her investigation might be the key to restoring his connection to Lake Superior's voice.If she could identify and eliminate the pretender contaminating his sacred work, the lake might speak to him again.The ancient rhythm of taking and blessing might resume.
Through the fence, he could see lights flickering on in the harbor district as Duluth prepared for another harsh January night.Somewhere in that maze of industrial facilities and residential neighborhoods, Agent Rivers was pursuing leads.And somewhere else in that same landscape, the impostor was planning his next violation of the sacred relationship between predator and environment.
The Shipwrecker turned away from the lake, walking slowly across the shipyard's snow-covered parking lot toward his truck.His movements were deliberate, unhurried, those of a man who'd learned that patience was often more valuable than action.
Agent Rivers was dangerous—intelligent, persistent, possessed of the kind of analytical mind that could eventually connect him to his life's work.Under normal circumstances, he would have considered eliminating her.The lake had guided him to remove obstacles before, had whispered instructions about protecting the sacred work from interference.
But these weren't normal circumstances.The lake's silence meant he was operating without guidance for the first time in thirty years.And human judgment suggested that Agent Rivers might be more valuable alive than dead, at least until she'd served her purpose in identifying his competition.
The truck's engine turned over reluctantly in the bitter cold.As he drove through Duluth's early evening traffic, the Shipwrecker found himself studying pedestrians with new attention, wondering which of them might be the pretender who'd stolen his methods and corrupted his purpose.
It could be anyone.Someone who'd noticed the same patterns Agent Rivers had identified, but who lacked the spiritual connection that made killing sacred rather than merely criminal.Someone opportunistic enough to exploit techniques they'd observed, but too spiritually deaf to understand that Lake Superior's cooperation required more than technical competence.
The thought filled him with rage that had nothing to do with the risk of discovery and everything to do with the violation of something he held sacred.He’d been the lake's chosen instrument.Now, some amateur was using his methods for profane purposes, contaminating the relationship that had given meaning to an otherwise ordinary life.
Without that voice, he felt untethered in ways that went far beyond immediate tactical concerns about the FBI investigation.The lake had been his confessor, his guide, his source of purpose and validation.Its silence left him adrift in a world that suddenly seemed arbitrary and meaningless.
