Chapter 1

He was tired of the river winning.

Axel Mulligan crouched on the bank, the cold seeping into his bones despite the dry suit, shivered, and tried to read the foamy, lethal water. His entire body shook, his hands scraped and a little bloody, and he shut out the sound of a man keening behind him.

Grief. Horror. Regret. Guilt, maybe.

Axel got it. His jaw tightened. “Where are you, Cally?”

“She’s not . . . it’s not worth risking your life, buddy. Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid might be my middle name. Just set up the rope.”

Axel glanced at his fellow kayaker, Sullivan Bowie, and the man walked away to set up the belay system. But the guy was right.

This could be epically stupid.

Mist rose over the river from the Glacier Veil falls, but she was out there, he could feel it?—

Okay, he couldn’t feel it. But he wanted it to be true.

Neededit to be true.

This river owed him.

The falls dropped thirty feet—not a terrible fall, but with enough force along the forty-foot edge to create a churning hole at the base, a swirling upstream boil, and frothy backwash that could swallow a kayaker, or in this case seventeen-year-old Calista Roberts, whole.

“You about ready on that belay system?” Axel got up and glanced over at Sully, who had unwound the line from one of their rope bags and secured it to a nearby tree. Sully wore his golden brown hair back, square jaw tight as he worked.

Axel glanced at the spray over the falls, toward the fading sunlight. It wouldn’t get completely dark, not this far into June in Alaska, but the shadows and the fact that time worked against them put a fist in his gut.

“I’m going to say it one more time. You sure this is a good idea?” Sully walked up and hooked a carabiner to the clip on the back of Axel’s life jacket. He’d stopped shivering, despite being soaked. But he’d been busy setting up a tent, then helping Axel rescue fifteen-year-old Adrienne, tucking her into a sleeping bag while Jude Remington tried to keep the girls’ father from going into shock. Jude kept talking to him, asking Guy—a lawyer from Georgia—how he’d ended up on this arm of the Copper River, kayaking with—in Axel’s opinion—his severely undertrained daughters . . .

This was why Air One Rescue never ran out of callouts.

“Not even a little,” Axel said. “According to Guy, Cally passed an advanced kayaking course last year and worked with the Copper River Rafting company last summer. She’s a good swimmer.”

“Even good swimmers drown,” said Sully, his voice lowered. He gave Axel a pointed look.

“I won’t drown. Listen, if I go in and don’t come up for four minutes, then get me out of there.”

“Four minutes?”

“I’d say five, but I’m cold.” He pointed to where water splashed against a granite wall near one side of the falls. “The water is pillowing there, but I think that could be an undercut. When I was a kid, we shot the falls, and the water was really low. I remember it being a cauldron there—it could easily be an undercut in these high waters.”

“You think she’s trapped in there?”

He lifted a shoulder, glanced at Jude, who was barely holding the girls’ father back from diving into the water.

The father looked almost ferocious with grief.

“I don’t know. But . . . be ready for anything. Do you think Levi has reached cell signal yet?”

“Probably. It’s been forty-five minutes.”

“It’ll take Air One at least twenty minutes to fly here from Sky King Ranch, so . . .”

“So we need to keep her alive if . . .” Sully looked at him. “Don’t die on me, Axe.”

“I was born for this.”

He stepped out then, life pouch first, and bellied into the water.

He started to swim along the edges of the shore, where the water couldn’t jerk him into the boil.

Please, please, be there.

Frankly, Axel and the boys might not have seen Guy and his daughters at all if they hadn’t stopped under the falls. They’d gotten out of their kayaks to scout the blind spot ahead, where the river simply vanished over a hard horizon line, smoky mist rising to suggest a brutal—albeit possibly fun—drop.

Not so fun once he’d gotten a look at it. Forty feet down to a narrow cauldron of boiling water. Axel hadn’t remembered it being this lethal.

Or maybe he’d simply been younger and more stupid back when he’d run this river before.

He’d been looking upriver, his thoughts on, well, mistakes, when he’d seen the paddler drop over the upper falls.

A red kayak nosediving, then pinging up in the foam and mist.

“Is he upright?” said Jude, next to him at the time.

“Dunno,” Axel said and took off his sunglasses, a little hazy with mist. “There—” He’d pointed to a white helmet and blue jacket that’d surfaced with the red kayak. “It’s stuck in the backwash.”

Indeed, the cauldron had caught the kayak, swirled it around, pulled it into the froth and back toward the falls. The paddler fought to escape.

“They’re going to have to flip, get into current and let it pull them out.” Sully had come up to them.

And that’s when the second kayaker came over. A bigger paddler, he splashed down hard, and the weight propelled him deeper into the water. He caught the current and jetted out of the cauldron.

“Like that,” Sully said.

But then the kayaker turned, paddling back toward the falls even as the rapids grabbed him.

“Look out!” This from Levi Starr, standing upriver. “There’s a?—”

Downed tree. A strainer, it lay in the water like a net, and with the paddler’s back to the obstacle, the river ran him right into it, tangling him.

He lost his paddle and grabbed onto the tree as the flow dragged him under.

“For the love—” Axel started up the shoreline even as Levi hustled to the kayaks for rescue rope bags.

And then the third kayak came over. Axel got a better view this time. Orange helmet, orange kayak, long dark braids?—

A girl. She splashed down on the far side of the falls, tipped, rolled, and . . . vanished.

Horrified shouts from the trapped man turned the moment from trouble into disaster.

While Levi and Jude pulled out their rope bags and fought to get the man to shore, Axel slid into his kayak and pushed out into the eddy beneath the falls. He paddled close enough so that his voice might lift over the thunder.

No sign of the orange kayak.

The first paddler, red kayak, had big blue eyes, dark hair, and so much fear on her face he nearly got in the water. A girl, midteens, fighting to escape the grip of the falls. “You’re too high in the water!” His voice lifted over the thunder of the falls. “You need to paddle upstream, then ball down in the water and catch the suspended load, let the current carry you out. I’ll be right here to catch you.”

She nodded, and brave kid that she was, paddled out into the boil, rolled to her side, got deep?—

The current shot her past the boil line and into the outwash. He grabbed her kayak.

But she was still under, fighting to get upright, and clawed at him. Pulled.

He went over. Under.

The water, even on a hot Saturday in June, sent needles through him and grabbed his breath. For a second, the shock blew out his thoughts.

Then—stop. Calm down. He could hold his breath for nearly five minutes. And he’d been kayaking since he was a kid.

He pushed away from the girl, his hand still on his paddle, and righted himself.

Then he reached out and pulled her up.

She came up screaming, shivering, terrified, and grabbed at him again, but he held her away. “You’re okay. You did it. Good job.”

Her breaths cascaded over each other. “Where’s my dad?”

That’s when the pieces clicked together. He pointed to shore, where Levi stood with the father.

“And Cally?”

Cally. The other kayaker. “You get to shore!”

The orange kayak hadn’t popped out of the foamy clutter yet, so maybe . . .

He followed the red kayak to shore, secured her into Sully’s grip, and headed back out to the boil under the falls. The water leaned out, a curtain over a granite wall. Maybe she’d been caught behind it.

He paddled along the length and didn’t spot the kayak.

But he knew these falls, so that’s when he’d had the bright idea of being bait on a string.

Or perhaps a bobber, because now he fought the current, going under, back out, blinking hard to keep his eyes on his target—the overhang of granite where water splashed up, flushing back into the roiling water.

The rock crumbled like eggshells under his gloved grip, but he clawed at it, managed to hang on. He looked back at Sully and flashed a thumbs-up. Then put up four fingers.

Really, he could do five if he had to.

Then he spotted it. The orange of the kayak shoved under the rock, held tight.

Oh no—no?—

If she hadn’t released from her skirt . . .

He yanked at the kayak, barely moved it, and dug in.

The kayak eased out until the current grabbed it, then popped free, out into the churn.

Empty.

He stared at it as it floated downriver.

Bodies were heavy, especially ones without air. Which meant that she could be at the bottom, where the friction of the rock could hold on, pin her down.

He blew out a breath. What choice did he have, really?

So that others might live.The Coast Guard creed to save others, no matter the cost.

Didn’t matter if he wasn’t with the Guard anymore—the promise still stuck. He drew in five deep breaths, and went under, into the cave.

He kicked hard, the river yanking at him but also pushing, twisting, and just like that, it snarled him up, slammed him against the rock. He grabbed for a hold, but the waves buffeted him, nearly jerking out his breath. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the debris bit at them.

The current turned him and shoved him down. He scrubbed the bottom with his shoulder and searched the floor for a body.

No body, at least not that he could feel or see in the wan light.

His breath burned in his lungs.

He got his feet down, his fingers into the granite, the water still violent around him, and tried to orient himself.

Get out.

The thought pulsed at him, and he tried to turn, to catch the outgoing current, but the roil fought him.

His breath started to leak.

And the rope at his life jacket tugged.

He put his arms up so as not to hit the ceiling, and kicked, fighting to escape.

Something grabbed his wrist. Yanked. And just like that, a weight slammed him to the bottom.

His breath burned, bursting against his ribs.

Then hands grabbed his jacket.

He put his hands up, kicked.

Found just a foot or less of water, but air. At least for a second. Then a wave crashed in, buried him, and he clung to the cave wall.

The water receded, and he blinked.

The girl with the orange helmet stared at him.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah. Barely. I was pinned, but I got out, and then the current drove me in here. I thought I was going to die.” Her voice cracked on the last of her words.

Yeah, him too, but he didn’t say that. “They have me on a line. Hold on to me and we’ll get out together, okay?”

She nodded.

He tugged on the line and felt it start to grip. Attaboy, Sully. He probably had Jude helping.

“Deep breaths now?—”

She drank in a couple deep breaths, and he did the same. Then he grabbed her hand, put it on his life-jacket harness, and wrapped his hand around hers, making a fist.

She held on and he ducked under, pushing off the rocks, and swam hard.

With the tug of the rope and the current catching him, they shot out of the cave and surfaced. He rolled over, grabbed her by her life jacket, and backstroked to shore.

Her father fell to his knees, weeping as they crawled over the rocks. She dropped into his arms, and Adrienne crawled out of the tent to join them.

Axel sat on the shore, shivering as Sully unhooked him.

“Thought we lost you there.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time people thought that,” Axel said.

Sully grinned.

And overhead, the air thundered. A big red chopper came into view. Sully stood, waving his arms. “Looks like big brother came looking for you.”

“I can see the headlines now,” Jude said, packing up the rope. “‘Hometown Hero at It Again.’ Maybe you can get your own reality show.”

Axel got up. Shot him a look.

“What?”

“That’s enough, Jude,” Sully said, looking back at Axel.

Behind him, the falls fell, the fog rising into the golden shadows.

Above them, from the chopper, Shep was coming down on a line. Axel got up to reel his teammate in. “Let’s get out of here before the river changes its mind.”

Today, they’d been lucky. Real lucky.

But the river kept score.

And Axel was no longer down by one.

* * *

He was out there; Flynn knew it in her bones.

You can run, but you can’t hide.

“Wait until we get there, Flynn.” The voice came through her earwig, attached by Bluetooth to her cell phone. Yes, she should probably listen to Chief Burke if she wanted to hold on to her job.

But she also wanted to catch the 1039 Killer, and time gave them no favors. Which was why she stood under the Broadway Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis, down by the water, in the shadows, in the rain, waiting, her breath tight, her eyes peeled at the banks of the river.

He dumped them here. Or around here. Every time.

Girls he’d picked up at the nearby 1039 Bar. It had taken them only six months to figure that out, one strangled, sexually-assaulted victim at a time.

But lately, he’d gotten reckless, maybe frustrated, even thirsty.

“I’m pulling up to Broadway Pizza,” Burke said into her ear.

“Don’t scare him away,” she whispered. Her eyes had adjusted to the wan light of the overhead lights across the bridge. Rain, however, pinged down around her, and mud covered her pants, her boots, her jacket soaked through. She wore a baseball cap, but that didn’t help much, not with the downpour earlier.

Felt like heaven might be weeping.

Not tonight. Tonight the carnage ends.

“I’m coming to you.”

“No. I need you above me, on the bridge, watching in case he drops her on the other side.”

“And what if he sees you? He could snatch you too.”

“You just keep your eyes peeled for him. This is his night; I can feel it.”

Burke made a sound, something deep inside his chest. Probably frustration. She hadn’t exactly extended him an invite to this. He’d heard about her stakeout through his ex-cop partner, Rembrandt, who’d probably heard it from his wife, Chief Crime Scene Forensic Examiner, Eve Stone, Flynn’s self-appointed mentor after Flynn had interned with her.

Yes, Eve might be a bit of a mother hen, her worry igniting the scrutiny of Flynn’s boss, Chief Inspector Andrew Burke. But Flynn wasn’t going to go crazy, try to apprehend the guy right here without backup. She just wanted to spot him, confirm, follow, and then, in the light of day, she’d track him down and bring him in. With the appropriate backup.

Maybe.

Aw, probably not. Because she wasn’t going to let him go to kill another day.

Still, she was armed with her camera. And yes, a weapon, albeit holstered. Because she wasn’t stupid, thank you. She hadn’t become one of the youngest detectives in the Minneapolis Police Department by rushing in without thinking.

No, she’d planned this rainy, midnight stakeout for two weeks, right after the 1039 Killer dropped his last victim into the muddy waters of the Mississippi, under the Broadway Avenue Bridge, and she’d figured out another piece of the puzzle.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she reached down to turn it off. Probably her mother, wanting to check in despite the late hour. She owed her parents a call. A visit. Maybe even an apology.

Raising her night-vision monocular, she scanned the shoreline. His MO meant he’d drop the body on the Minneapolis side, probably parking his car along the river road.

“See anything?” she whispered to Burke.

“No.”

“It’s the rain. No moonlight, darkness as cover.”

“How long have you been out here?”

Given the sogginess of her clothing, the burn in her knees—“An hour, maybe more.”

“You sure about this, Flynn?”

Not entirely, but, “As sure as I can be. I’ve spent the last six months getting inside this guy’s head.”

“Remind me who I’m looking for.”

“The victim is in her twenties, a frequenter of the 1039. I think he knows them, so he probably hangs around the bar, maybe even makes friends. He reminds me of the Charmer Killer in Seattle. My profile puts him in his midthirties, handsome, charming, but also a sociopath. Might have lost his mother, maybe had a young stepmother, felt rejected by her. Takes out his hurt on these women. He has a sibling—a sister, but I haven’t been able to track her down. It’s possible she was his first victim.”

“It scares me a little how much serial killer information you keep in your brain.”

“You definitely don’t want to see my apartment, then.”

“Eve told me about the wall.”

Oh, that was for a different case. But she didn’t contradict him. “Well, if I were better, I’d have found him before he killed another woman. But I’ve staked out the 1039 Bar so much I fear he knows me. None of the murders happened on nights I was there.”

“Why tonight, here, in the rain?”

“Because this is the night. The scenario fits—a rainy, live-music night, half-price rail drinks for women. The last two victims disappeared during ladies’ night. And until I figure out option three—his actual identity—I need to stake out the place he dumps the bodies. Some of the bodies have washed up into the rain culvert just under the bridge, so my guess is that he drops them upstream and they float down. Maybe you should go up to the parking lot near the Park and Rec building. But don’t look suspicious.”

“What? I’ve got my best Idris Elba on.”

“Yum,” she said. “Maybe Rembrandt should make you the hero in his new book.”

She heard breathing, and it sounded like Burke could be running. The guy didn’t do much in the way of field work anymore. He’d probably made a special provision for her.

But she worked alone, didn’t like the complications of a partner.

Don’t get hurt, boss.

Stationed here, under the shadows of the bridge, she had a view of the shoreline and anyone rolling a body into the murky waters—wait . . .

“Chief. There’s someone onshore, coming down the path right off the River Road split.”

“Not. Quite. There?—”

“I got him.” She raised her camera and took a number of shots, the light terrible, of course.

She needed a better look. Her gut fisted, though. She knew tonight was right—knew it. The bouncer at the 1039 should have listened to her, called her. But really, with so many patrons coming and going on a music night like this . . .

The figure was carrying something over his shoulder. He dropped it onto the shoreline.

More camera shots, but even as she peered into her viewfinder, she knew it wouldn’t help her case.

“I’m moving in.”

Nothing from Burke, but she wasn’t helpless. She dropped her camera into the bag at her feet, pulled her Glock, and ventured out of the shadows.

Her eyes had long adjusted to the night, and she waited another half second to blink away the residue of the viewfinder. The rain still pinged down, not as violent, but enough to shatter the silence of the night. Above, traffic whooshed through puddles on the bridge.

The man crouched, then rolled the body into the water.

Washed his hands in the water.

Got up.

And turned.

She stood just twenty feet away now, her gun raised. But the light caught his face, and she froze.

Not a man.

What?

The face under the hood of the rain jacket wore no makeup, but her features appeared young, female, and shaken.

Something wasn’t right here, but—“Stop!”

The woman’s mouth opened, then closed, and she turned, sprinting away.

Flynn started after her, slipped, nearly fell down the muddy bank, then scrambled up. “Burke! It’s a woman!”

“On it!”

“She’s headed for the road.”

Flynn fought for purchase in the slippery soil, reaching the grassy edge, tripping over a downed tree, catching herself. “She’s getting away!”

“I see her—” More breaths now, and he grunted over the phone.

She plowed through the bramble, headed for the path?—

A blow slammed into her, like a branch across her shoulders, and she fell so hard that the gun bounced away into the night.

Then a knee landed on her spine, the weight of a body pressing her into the loam and grime. She tried to twist, fighting, throwing her elbows back, but the hand grabbed the back of her neck, forced her face into the mud.

“Thought you’d catch me, huh?”

She tried to turn her head, fighting for air, but the voice registered. Deep.

Male.

What?

Then he grabbed her, flipped her, his knees on her arms, his body over hers. In the dim light, she made out a man in a hoodie, his face gaunt, his eyes hard on hers.

“Help—”

His hands viced, his thumbs against the well of her neck.

She kicked at him, her breath fading, dots blackening her vision.

Her right hand found a rock embedded in the soil, and she closed her fist around it. His knees pinned her upper arms, but as her breath burned in her, she flung it at his head.

It hit him—enough that he loosened his hold, jostled his perch—and in that second, she got an arm loose. Brought it in front of her, slamming her hand into his jaw. He fell back.

She hooked her leg around him, brought him down, then twisted, got her other leg free, and slammed her foot into his jaw.

Scrambled away?—

He grabbed her ankle and jerked. She went down, but her hand landed on the hard metal of her Glock.

She turned and fired.

The bullet hit him, center mass, tearing him away from her.

He crumpled even as she scooted back, breathing hard.

“Flynn!” The voice echoed through the drizzle, not her earpiece, and she looked up to see a light pinging off the trees, coming near.

“Over here!”

She shook, her entire body on vibrate as she stared at the man. Footsteps squished through the loam and grass, and in a second, the light shone on the wounded body.

Her breaths still came out hard, her heartbeat in her ears.

“You’re okay. I got you.” Chief Burke, behind her, crouching down and now easing the weapon from her hand. He set a big hand on her shoulder as he pulled out his cell phone. “We’re going to need backup. One casualty, one in custody, and we’ll need a bus. Officer injured. And the coroner, as well as the crime scene unit, pronto.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. I know.” He shone the light on the man again. “This our guy?”

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him. “The woman was dumping the body.”

“She was pretty freaked out. Not sure if she’s a victim or—” Burke cut off.

“It could be his sister.” And she didn’t know why the thought came to her, just something in her gut, maybe.

Pushing up, she went over to the man. Midthirties, short dark hair, could be handsome in the dim lighting of a bar. She blew out a breath. “She might have even been the mastermind. Or maybe she just got roped into it after his first kill.” She took a breath. “Whatever happened, they probably both suffered the same childhood trauma.”

“That’s a leap, Flynn.”

She sighed. “Probably. Just a gut feeling. But it happens. Family bonds—especially sibling bonds are . . . they can be pretty strong. Cause people to do things they would never dream of. Get themselves in over their heads.”

“This your professional opinion?”

She glanced at him, nodded.

But uh, nope. That would be personal experience.

Sirens moaned in the air. “Where is the woman?” she asked.

“Cuffed to a lamppost.”

She grabbed her gun from Burke, sheathed it, then pushed past him out onto the path.

“What are you doing?” Burke followed her out.

“I need to talk to her.”

“You need medical attention.”

She looked at him, and her hand went to her throat. “I’m fine.” Although she could barely make him out in the darkness, she guessed his signature mouth-pursed grim expression. “Fine. But no one interviews her before I do.”

“Done.” He walked out onto the path ahead of her, waving to a cruiser as it pulled up. But then he turned to her, and this time, the lights revealed his expression. “Good job, Detective. You saved lives tonight.”

He turned back, jogging out to meet the officers. She stood in the rain, her gaze on the woman cuffed to the pole.

The woman stared back, unblinking, her jaw tight, fear in her eyes.

No, not the mastermind. Maybe even a victim of the killer’s psychosis.

Flynn turned, flicked on the flashlight of her cell phone, and followed it down the pathway back to the riverbank.

The victim lay on the shore, her hands and feet bound with duct tape, her mouth also taped, just like the ten plus victims before her.

Flynn knelt next to her, shone her light on her face.

Held her breath. Please?—

She took in the dark hair, the green eyes, now open, affixed in horror. But it wasn’t Kennedy.

Of course it wasn’t Kennedy. But sometimes—no, every time—she braced herself, just in case.

Flynn got up, stared out at the dark river, the lights of the Minneapolis city skyline rising downstream to glare upon the river.

Then she closed her eyes and let the rain do the weeping for her.