Page 18 of One Last Chance

“Just . . . no. You didn’t let the Midnight Sun Killer get free. If there is such a killer out there?—”

“Oh, I think there is?—”

“Still at work, after fifteen years? C’mon. I think they’ve attributed a handful of accidents to one sociopath?—”

“Accidents? Seriously, Moose, have you listened to any of the news? Done any research? This guy picks up women off the highway—sometimes lures them to stop, even, then takes them out to the woods, sexually assaults them, then sets them free to hunt them down. He’s killed, like, thirteen women, that they know of. And dozens of others are missing.”

“And you seriously think your missing driver is this guy?”

“Ashley said he’d followed her, picked her up?—”

“She left a bar. He grabbed her in the parking lot, from what I remember. And this was nowhere near where the Midnight Sun Killer left them.”

Axel stared at him. “What do you mean this was nowhere near where he left them? What do you know that I don’t?”

Moose got very quiet. “You’re not the only one who grieves Aven. Who wishes he’d done something different.”

Axel let that sit.

“But I don’t blame myself. And I don’t let it tell me who I am.”

Axel brushed off his hands. “I know who I am. I don’t need any reminders.” He picked up the plate and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers along with the bottle of sriracha. “Next time you decide to rent the Air One team to a reality show, I’m out.”

He headed downstairs, back to the basement, which felt a little like a dungeon, maybe, but also contained the media room, with the surround sound and one-hundred-twenty-inch screen, so he’d take it. Moose had let him rent the two bedrooms—one for an office—so it wasn’t like he was a freeloader.

Axel just needed to figure out what getting back on his feet looked like. How to swim out of the cauldron.

Sitting on the leather sofa, he set his plate on the ottoman, along with his condiments, and turned on the television.

Weather report, of course—a storm coming in from the Bering Sea, across the Alaskan peninsula, on the way to Kodiak Island and the Gulf of Alaska. No doubt the Coast Guard in Kodiak was on full alert.

He picked up an egg, slathered it with sriracha, and ate half in one bite.

“That looks wicked.”

Moose had followed him downstairs, holding a glass of orange juice. “Thought you might want some. I just squeezed it.”

Axel doctored the next bite, then popped it into his mouth and reached for the glass. Nodded.

Moose stood behind the sofa, watching the weather. “Wind gusts of ninety miles per hour? That’s nearly a cat-three hurricane.”

“Yeah. Hard to get a trail line down in those conditions. Even with a twenty-pound weight on the line, the wind just takes it.”

A pause, then, “Personal experience?”

“The Heritage wreck.” Axel salted another egg. “It was just off the coast of Kodiak, but it took us two hours to go five miles. I’ve never seen it so bad before, or since.”

“Except now.”

“Yeah. Nothing worse than being on scene and hearing those voices on the radio and not being able to save them. Want one?” He lifted the plate to Moose.

“This isn’t usually storm season.” Moose took an egg, then the proffered sriracha sauce bottle, and doctored it. Took a bite. “This is good.”

“Mm-Mmmhmm.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier—I just . . . you know . . .”

“Don’t like me taking up space in your basement?”

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