Two hours. Isla could be at the detention center, could be there when they brought him in, could finally see his face and know with absolute certainty that the Lake Superior Killer was in custody.
"I need to see him," she said, already moving toward her closet for clean clothes. "As soon as he arrives, I want to be there."
"That's why I'm calling. Marshal Barrett wanted to make sure you had advance notice. She knows this is your case, Agent Rivers. Your identification made this whole thing possible."
Isla ended the call and stood for a moment in her dark bedroom, trying to process the information. They had him. After two weeks of false sightings and near misses, after countless hours of searching and hoping and dreading, Robert Brune was finally in custody.
The relief should have been overwhelming. Instead, Isla felt something closer to disquiet, a small voice in the back of her mind whispering that it couldn't be this easy. Brune had evaded capture for decades, had slipped away from her at North Pier with the ease of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Would he really have let himself be caught fleeing on foot near a border crossing?
She pushed the doubt away. The Marshals knew what they were doing. They'd identified a suspect matching Brune's description who'd fled from law enforcement—that was textbook fugitive behavior. Of course it was him.
Isla showered quickly, her mind already organizing the questions she'd need to ask once Brune was processed. Themurders he'd committed, the victims they'd identified, the patterns she'd uncovered. And most importantly: where had he been for the past two weeks? Had he been planning another killing before they'd caught him?
Her phone buzzed again at 4:52 AM, just as she was pulling on her blazer. A text from an unknown number, but with an attachment—a photograph. Isla opened it, her pulse quickening with anticipation.
The image showed a man in handcuffs, flanked by two U.S. Marshals in their distinctive tactical gear. The suspect was white, early sixties, with a grizzled gray beard and weathered features that spoke of decades spent outdoors. He wore a heavy winter coat and work boots, and his expression was sullen but not particularly concerned.
Isla stared at the photograph, zooming in on the man's face, studying every detail with the intensity that had made her one of the Bureau's better profilers.
And felt her stomach drop.
It wasn't him.
The build was wrong—this man was heavier than Brune, his shoulders broader, his face rounder despite the beard. The eyes were wrong too, set closer together, without that flat, dead quality she'd seen when she'd confronted Brune at North Pier. And there—she zoomed in further—the nose had been broken at some point and healed crooked, a detail that didn't match any of the descriptions they had on file.
This wasn't Robert Brune. This was just another scared old man who'd run from police and happened to match a general description.
Isla's phone rang immediately, and she answered before the second ring. "It's not him."
Crawford's excitement had dimmed considerably. "You're sure? I mean, the description—"
"I'm sure. I've seen Brune's face up close. This isn't him." Isla's voice was flat, professional, hiding the crushing disappointment that threatened to overwhelm her. "Release him with an apology and our thanks for his cooperation. And tell the Marshal's office that when you get credible sightings, I need to see photographs before full mobilization. We can't afford to waste resources on suspects who don't match."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, Agent Rivers. We really thought—"
"I know. Thank you for trying." Isla ended the call before he could apologize again.
She stood in her apartment's small living room, watching the sky gradually lighten beyond her windows as false dawn approached. Lake Superior stretched toward the horizon, dark and restless under December's heavy clouds. Somewhere out there—or maybe not out there at all, maybe right here in Duluth, hiding in plain sight—Robert Brune remained free.
The dream came back to her unbidden: his weathered hands around her throat, his voice like grinding metal. The lake whispers.It told me about you.
Isla shook her head, forcing the image away. Dreams weren't premonitions. They were just her subconscious processing trauma and stress and the weight of an unsolved case. Brune didn't have supernatural powers. He was just a man—a dangerous, skilled man who knew the area intimately, but still just a man.
They'd catch him eventually. It was only a matter of time.
Her phone rang again at 5:03 AM, and this time when Isla saw James's name on the screen, her stomach clenched with dread. He wouldn't be calling this early unless something had happened.
"Tell me," she said by way of greeting.
James's voice was grim. "We've got another body in the steam tunnels.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The eastern sky was bleeding pale pink and gold as Isla pulled into the industrial district for the second time in twenty-four hours. The address James had given her was different from yesterday's scene—Access Point 11, on the far western edge of the tunnel network—but the cluster of emergency vehicles was grimly familiar. Red and blue lights painted the pre-dawn darkness in strobing colors that made Isla's exhausted eyes ache.
She'd called Kate from the car, waking her boss at 5:17 AM with news that would ruin both their mornings. Another body in the steam tunnels. Another murder staged in Duluth's underground infrastructure. Whatever pattern they were dealing with, it was accelerating.
James's sedan was already parked near the perimeter, and Isla spotted him talking with Lieutenant Morrison near a steel access door that looked even older than the one they'd used yesterday. This entrance was set into a concrete bunker-style structure that had been painted over so many times the original color was impossible to determine. Rust stains streaked down from the hinges, and the security light overhead flickered intermittently, casting unstable shadows across the scene.
