Page 19 of One Last Shot
Despite the fact that Oaken seemed to actually be a good guy. Not the kind of guy to leap off the stage and beat up a fan. So maybe another reason not to believe anything she read on social media.
Hello.She of all people should know that.
She turned to Moose. “Hey, boss, I need to go get my car. It’s still sitting on Highway 1. I’m going to need a lift.”
“I’ll give you a lift in the morning. Let me drive you home,” Moose said.
“I can take an Uber.”
“At midnight?” He checked his watch. “C’mon, I need to talk to you anyway.”
Fine. She glanced again at Oaken, who was now getting animated in the corner, his hands out, shaking his head.Probably Reynolds delivering the bad news—show canceled. Of course.
She shoved her hands into her pockets, nodded at Moose.
He tossed his Coke can into the recycling bin on the way out.
This far south, the sky arched clear and bright, so many stars winking down at her. Winter, however, still hung in the brisk air, the temperature in the low thirties. She zipped up her jacket and spotted Moose’s F-150 in the parking lot under a streetlight.
As she got into the passenger side, her stomach grumbled.
Moose glanced at her. “I’ll fix that.”
She frowned but belted in.
Anchorage resembled a war zone during the thaw—muddy, crusty snow along the curbs, piled into the center of parking lots surrounded by skeletal, naked trees. A fog hovered over the sound. They drove past Merrill Field Airfield, the airportfor small bush planes and the headquarters of Air One. The chopper was under cover in the domed Quonset hut, the rescue plane tied down on the tarmac.
Air One also owned a small arsenal of land units—a rescue-equipment truck modified to carry a couple litters, two snow machines with a shielded sled for towing victims, a handful of Polaris ATVs, and a four-wheel-drive command truck equipped like something out ofMission Impossible.
And for water, a sick-looking twenty-four-foot rescue boat.
Moose clearly meant business, and why not? Seventy-five percent of search and rescue in Alaska was done by volunteers or private organizations, a statistic she’d read in the orientation manual Moose had given her.
They passed the other commercial and international airport and then, instead of turning southwest to her cute, converted 1930s three-bedroom cabin, he turned north, drove one block, and pulled into the Skyport Diner.
“Moose—”
“Their midnight fried chicken will tame that grizzly in your gut.”
“I have a box of Lucky Charms waiting for me at home.”
“Stop eating like a two-year-old.” He got out.
Two-year-old?She got out. “Moose.”
“Consider this your two-month review.”
“I get a two-month review?”
He stepped onto the curb, turned to her. “We need to talk.” He opened the door for her, and it felt not unlike a prison door.
Perfect.
The Skyport Diner, open twenty-four seven, was everything Boo expected, with red vinyl booths along two walls, a few round Formica tables in the middle, and a long bar that extended the length of the place. A massive menu board hung behind the counter above the serving area, and on the countersat an orders carousel and a bell. She could just imagine some beefy Popeye back there, dinging the bell with a gruff “Order’s up.”
A pie case hosted a few half-cut pies, and a massive coffeepot gurgled on the counter behind the bar.
A woman dressed in jeans and a white shirt covered by a long blue apron looked up. She smiled at Moose. “Hey there, Top Gun.”