Isla nodded slowly."He wants us to think he's capable of it.Whether or not he actually is, he wants the association.The reputation."She turned to look at James, his profile illuminated by the dashboard lights."But he's also smart enough not to give us anything we can use.No slips, no inconsistencies, nothing that would justify bringing him in."
"So what do we do?"
"We keep digging."Isla pulled out her phone, already composing a mental list of the next steps."Bank records, phone records, any surveillance footage from the areas where the attacks occurred.If Sterling is our guy, he had to get to those boats somehow.He had to buy supplies, fuel, and equipment.Nobody operates completely off the grid, no matter how careful they are."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, we get surveillance on him.Twenty-four hours, rotating teams.If he's planning another attack, we need to be watching when he moves."Isla stared out at the darkening landscape, thinking about the bodies in the lake, the blood on the decks of ghost ships, the killer who might be sitting in that cabin right now, planning his next hunt."Sterling's either our killer or he's not.Either way, we can't afford to let him out of our sight."
James was quiet for a moment, then nodded."I'll call Kate, get the surveillance request started.We can have a team on him ASAP."
"Make sure it’s tonight," Isla said."If he's our guy, he's already proven he doesn't wait around.The longer we give him, the more likely someone else ends up floating in Superior."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Duluth FBI field office had become a constant companion to Isla.The clock on the conference room wall read eight-seventeen PM, and through the window, the last traces of twilight were surrendering to a darkness that felt more oppressive than usual.
She stood at the window, watching Lake Superior disappear into the night.The water had turned from gray to black, swallowing the horizon until there was nothing left but the scattered lights of vessels making their way through the shipping lanes—small beacons of civilization against an immense void that could kill a person in a hundred different ways.
"Surveillance team just checked in," James said from behind her, his voice carrying the particular weariness that came from days of running on caffeine and determination."Sterling hasn't moved.He's been in his cabin all evening.Lights on, TV flickering through the window.No visitors, no phone calls that we can detect."
Isla turned from the window, rubbing the back of her neck where a persistent ache had taken up residence.The conference room was littered with the detritus of their investigation—empty coffee cups, printouts of Sterling's service records, maritime charts marked with the locations of every ghost ship they'd identified.The whiteboard still bore Sterling's name in red marker, a single suspect in a case that seemed to grow more complex with every passing hour.
"He knows we're watching," she said."A man with his training would spot surveillance within minutes.He's either completely innocent and has nothing to hide, or he's smart enough to wait us out."
James leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking with the movement.His flannel shirt was wrinkled, his usually neat hair disheveled from running his hands through it too many times.The past forty-eight hours had aged him, adding new lines around his blue eyes that hadn't been there before the Northern Dawn was found drifting.
"We dug deeper into his activities over the past six months," he said, sliding a folder across the table toward her."Marina records, fuel purchases, the works.He's been tracking vessels, Isla.Legitimate shipping operations, fishing boats, everything that moves through the harbor."
Isla picked up the folder and flipped through its contents.Logs of Sterling's boat usage, receipts from marine supply stores, and a pattern of movements that seemed to map the entire waterfront with methodical precision.None of it was illegal—a maritime security consultant would need to understand local traffic patterns—but the scope of it raised questions.
"He more or less admitted to this when we interviewed him," she said."Told us he advises shipping companies on anti-piracy measures.This is exactly what someone in that line of work would do."
"Or exactly what someone planning attacks would do."James stood and moved to join her at the window."He's been building intelligence on every operation in these waters.Schedules, routes, crew complements.If he wanted to identify vulnerable targets, this would be the playbook."
The implication hung in the air between them, heavy with possibility but frustratingly short on proof.Sterling fit their profile with almost uncomfortable precision—the military background, the maritime expertise, the personal grievance that might have transformed a decorated serviceman into a vigilante executioner.But fitting a profile wasn't evidence.And without evidence, they were just two agents with a theory and a surveillance team burning through their budget watching a man watch television.
Isla turned back to the window, her reflection ghosting across the glass like a specter.Beyond her own face, she could see the lights of the harbor—the industrial glow of the port facilities, the navigation markers guiding ships through the channel, the distant sparkle of Two Harbors up the shore.Somewhere out there, the Coast Guard was running increased patrols, trying to cover a body of water that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction.
"When I first came here," she said quietly, "almost two years ago now, you told me about the lake.Do you remember?"
James was silent for a moment, then a ghost of a smile crossed his weathered features."I told you it was dangerous.That it had more ways to kill you than you could imagine."
"You said it was cold enough to stop a heart in minutes.Deep enough to swallow ships whole and never give them back.You said the storms could come out of nowhere, that the waves could reach thirty feet, that people who grew up here still treated the water with the kind of respect you'd give a loaded gun."
"I was trying to prepare you," James said."Miami doesn't exactly train you for Superior."
"You also said something else."Isla turned to face him, her amber eyes catching the harsh fluorescent light."You made a joke—half a joke, anyway.You said that with all the ways the lake could kill someone, you were surprised anyone bothered to commit murder up here.The water would do the job for free if you just waited long enough."
The words landed differently now than they had almost two years ago, when she'd been a disgraced agent from Miami still believing her assignment to Duluth was temporary.She'd laughed at the time, chalked it up to gallows humor from a man who'd spent his career in a place where nature itself seemed actively hostile to human life.
But now, standing in this conference room with photographs of ghost ships spread across the table and a killer who had turned that hostile nature into a weapon, the observation felt prophetic.
"The Lake Superior Killer," she said."The pattern I found in Sarah Sanchez's death, in all those drownings, everyone else dismissed as accidents.He understood what you were joking about.He made his kills look like misfortune because he knew the lake would take the blame.Nobody questions when Superior claims a victim."
"And now we've got someone who doesn't bother with subtlety," James said."Knife wounds, blood on deck, bodies dumped where they'll eventually surface.Two different approaches, same hunting ground."
"Two killers," Isla murmured, the words tasting strange on her tongue."Operating on the same waters.Maybe for years."
