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CHAPTER ONE

Nina Truhler screamed when she found the man in the water. Later, she would tell me that she hadn't been afraid, merely startled. I didn't believe her, though, because I heard the scream.

What happened, a mutual friend had invited us to go boating on the St. Croix, the river that formed much of the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. Dave Deese was pretty excited about it. The weather had improved dramatically by mid-March. Unseasonably bright, warm sunshine had melted the snow and most of the ice and Deese was anxious to get his boat out of dry dock, a forty-two-foot Sea Ray Sundancer that he and his wife often slept on just because. I mean the man had all but given up playing golf so he could spend more time on the river, how nuts was that? He had his "big splash" a few days earlier. Apparently, that's the term luxury boat owners use when they launch their boats; guys with fishing and pontoon boats probably not so much.

Nina and I were excited, too, about the prospect of taking a river cruise and for the same reason—spring. So we accepted the invitation and drove a half hour from Minneapolis to the marina located a few miles north of Stillwater. Only by then the temperature had plummeted to a few degrees below freezing and the sky had turned a dark shade of gray. I half expected to see icebergs floating on the St. Croix and the fact that I didn't, well, that didn't prove they weren't lurking beneath the surface. The lot was nearly empty; only four vehicles were parked there when we arrived including a black SUV with the name E. J. WOODS TREE CARE SERVICES printed in white letters on all of its doors. We bundled ourselves in heavy coats, boots, and hats, and walked onto the mazelike steel-and-wooden pier that jutted from the shoreline into the river. The marina boasted over two hundred and fifty U-shaped slips but finding Deese wasn't difficult. I counted less than two dozen boats secured to the cleats and plugged in to the electrical outlets. That, plus the sparsely filled parking lot, told me those of us who thought spring had come early to Minnesota were in a true minority.

Before we could reach Deese, though, we were intercepted by a woman; her words came in puffs of condensation.

"Help me," she said. "Please."

I had no idea how old she was. Her eyes were clear and blue; yet her face suggested that she had discovered the fountain of youth in an artful amalgamation of cosmetics and neurotoxins. Her skirt was short, her jacket lightweight, and her head uncovered; shoulder-length blond hair was whipped about in the wind and she used both of her hands to keep it out of her face.

The wooden planks beneath her feet were as steady as a concrete sidewalk, yet she bobbed back and forth as if they were being buffeted by heavy waves.

"Please help me," she repeated.

"Help you what?" I asked.

"My husband..."

She wrapped her arms around herself as if she suddenly realized that it was cold outside.

"My husband..."

"Yes?"

She shook her head.

Nina stretched out a hand and rested it on the woman's shoulder.

"Tell us about your husband," she said.

"I can't find him. I've looked and looked and I can't find him."

"You can't find him?" I asked.

"He was here."

"Here at the marina?"

"But now he's gone."

"Gone where?"

Stop it, my inner voice told me. You sound like an idiot.

"I don't know," the woman said. "Can you help me?"

"Of course we can," Nina said.

Her gaze turned from the woman and settled on me.