"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.TheNorthern Dawnoffered 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.NorthernDawn—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."
Isla bristled.She didn’t like the sounds of this.“Let’s go find out.”
***
The drive to the marina took them through the heart of Duluth's harbor district, past the steel mills and grain elevators that had defined the city's economy for generations.TheNorthernDawnwas already visible under the harsh glare of Coast Guard floodlights, a white-hulled vessel perhaps a hundred and fifty feet long, riding slightly low in the water as she was guided toward the dock by a Coast Guard tug.
