Page 145 of One Last Shot

“Mike’s parachute, from the accident,” Oaken said.

“Yeah.” Moose stepped away from the table, folded his arms. In the center was a tablet with a GPS overlay of the area and a general search grid.

“What’s this?”

“The LUT system picked up this signal about two hours ago. Usually the Coast Guard would handle it, but the signal is not at sea, per se, so they sent it to the sheriff’s office. All their people are still out on the Knik Arm doing drills, so dispatchsent it to us.”

“What kind of signal is it?” Shep asked.

Moose looked at Shep. “It’s a PLB signal.”

“Personal Locator Beacon,” Oaken said.

“Yep,” Shep said. He looked at Oaken. “Do you know if Mike had one?”

“I don’t. Boo mentioned that he might have, but...” He looked at them. “Does it matter? Is someone in trouble?”

“Maybe. The Coast Guard is checking if there is a second homing frequency—a backup. If so, it’s a ship and not our territory.”

“And if not?”

Moose leaned over the table. “If not, then it’s a boat. Or a person. In distress.”

He paused.

“And . . . where is this person?”

“In the Turnagain mudflats,” Moose said, tension in his tone.

“I don’t get it,” Oaken said. “What are the Turnagain mudflats?”

“It’s the runoff of the glacier field,” said Shep. “It’s sort of an illusion—people think they can walk on it, but really it’s quicksand. Or quick cement. You go in, but you can’t get out. And then the tide comes in and...”

London wrapped her arms around herself.

Moose looked at Oaken. “You drown.”

Shep stepped back. “And there’s a bore tide heading in tonight.”

“What’sthat?” Oaken said.

Shep shook his head, then headed for the locker room.

Axel followed him.

“It’s a ten-foot wave, in from the ocean. Even if she isn’t stuck in the mud, if she doesn’t get out before the tide gets there...” Dodge looked at Moose. “So we go in by air.”

Moose nodded and looked at Oaken. “Do you think . . . would Reynolds . . .” He appeared stripped.

“Yes,” Oaken said and followed Axel into the locker room. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 16

At least she’d die with a view. Boo climbed in the back seat after kicking out the panel from the trunk. She was sweating despite the chill in the air. The sun had fallen just behind the faraway Alaska Range—or maybe it was the closer mountains in the Lake Clark National Preserve.

Whatever. The tufted clouds had turned a glorious orange and periwinkle, the sky above darkening. No moon tonight—not that she kept track of the lunar cycle, but last night a sliver of a thumbnail had hung in the sky as she’d stepped outside onto the deck, breathing in the crisp Alaskan air, glad to be back.

Now, maybe not so much. And she might be getting a little punchy, but it had taken her the better part of three hours to kick out the inner seat panel between her and the trunk. Everything hurt, her body spent.