"The rescue team is coming," Isla said, her voice carrying across the ice."Hold on, David.Just hold on a little longer."
But even as she spoke, she could see that Kucharski wasn't going to last until Morrison arrived.His lips were turning blue, his eyes losing focus, his movements in the water becoming more like spasms than coordinated swimming.The hypothermia from his first immersion had already compromised his system; this second exposure was overwhelming what little resistance remained.
Isla made her decision.
She lay flat on the ice, distributing her weight across as large a surface as possible, and began crawling toward the opening where Kucharski struggled.Every movement sent cracks racing across the frozen surface, warnings that her own weight might cause another catastrophic failure, but she forced herself forward anyway.
"Isla, stop!"Sullivan's voice carried from behind her, where he was being treated by the rescue team."Let Morrison handle it—you're too hypothermic to risk another immersion!"
But she was already at the edge of the opening, extending her arm toward Kucharski with the same determination she'd witnessed in Sullivan minutes earlier.The irony wasn't lost on her—saving the life of someone who'd tried to murder her, extending help to a killer who'd created this exact scenario for innocent victims over thirty years.
"Grab my hand," she commanded, her voice carrying authority despite her hypothermic condition."Now, David.Grab my hand and let me pull you out."
Kucharski's eyes focused on her extended arm with an expression that cycled through confusion, hope, and something that might have been shame.His movements in the water had slowed to the point where reaching for her hand required obvious effort, his hypothermic muscles barely responding to conscious direction.
"Why?"he asked, the word slurred but carrying genuine bewilderment."After everything I did—"
"Because I'm not you," Isla replied."Because I don't let people die when I have the power to save them, regardless of what they've done.Now grab my goddamn hand before I change my mind."
Kucharski reached for her with movements that were almost dreamlike in their slow coordination, his frozen fingers grasping at her extended arm.Their hands connected, and Isla began pulling with strength that came from somewhere beyond her depleted physical reserves.
Behind her, Morrison had arrived with rescue equipment, immediately deploying anchor ropes that would prevent both of them from being pulled into the water if the ice failed again.Other rescue workers positioned themselves to assist, creating a human chain that multiplied the pulling force while distributing weight across the fragile surface.
Together, they hauled Kucharski from the water for what would be the last time.His body emerged from Lake Superior with the reluctance of something that had almost been claimed, water streaming from his frozen clothing as they pulled him onto ice that held despite its compromised condition.
Morrison immediately wrapped him in emergency thermal blankets, his professional training overriding whatever personal feelings he had about rescuing someone who'd just been revealed as a serial killer.But his eyes, when they met Isla's, carried understanding and something approaching respect.
"You shouldn't have risked that," he said quietly."But I understand why you did."
Isla didn't respond, couldn't find words to explain why she'd endangered herself to save someone who'd tried to murder her minutes earlier.Maybe it was the fundamental difference between justice and vengeance.Maybe it was the need to prove—to herself more than anyone—that surviving Miami's failure hadn't broken her capacity for moral action.
Or maybe she just refused to let Lake Superior claim another victim, even one who'd spent thirty years feeding it sacrifices.
Kucharski lay on the ice between them, wrapped in thermal blankets but still shaking violently from hypothermia.His eyes found Isla's with an expression that held too many emotions to catalog—gratitude and confusion and resignation all mixed together in the face of someone whose carefully constructed world had collapsed in a single morning.
"Why?"he asked again, his voice barely a whisper.
"Because that's what actual heroes do," Isla replied."They save lives.Even ones that aren't worth saving.Even when it costs them something."
Law enforcement had reached them now, Duluth PD officers moving across the ice with careful steps to take custody of a prisoner who was in no condition to resist.They read him his rights as paramedics worked to stabilize his core temperature, the familiar Miranda warnings taking on a surreal quality when delivered to someone who'd deceived an entire community for thirty years.
Sullivan was being loaded onto a rescue sled for transport back to shore, his broken shoulder immobilized and his hypothermic condition requiring immediate medical attention.But his eyes remained fixed on Isla, carrying the same mixture of concern and respect that she'd seen in Morrison's gaze moments earlier.
"That was the dumbest thing I've ever seen you do," he called across the ice, his voice carrying despite the pain medication the paramedics had administered."And also possibly the bravest."
Isla managed a weak smile, too exhausted and hypothermic to form a proper response.Her own medical evacuation was being prepared, paramedics moving toward her position with equipment that would stabilize her condition during transport to Duluth General Hospital.
As they wrapped her in thermal blankets and began the careful process of moving her across unstable ice toward the safety of shore, Isla caught one final glimpse of Kucharski being loaded onto his own rescue sled.His face was turned toward the sky, expression unreadable, but she thought she saw tears freezing on his cheeks—whether from cold or emotion, she couldn't determine.
Behind them, Lake Superior's frozen expanse stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its white surface hiding the currents and depths that had claimed thousands of lives over the centuries.Today it had been denied four more victims—Isla, Sullivan, and paradoxically, Kucharski himself, whose designed trap had failed to claim the targets he'd selected.
But as Isla was loaded into the waiting ambulance, warm air beginning to restore sensation to her frozen extremities, one thought dominated all others:
David Kucharski's arrest solved the recent murders, but somewhere in Duluth's frozen landscape, another killer remained active.The Lake Superior Killer—the one who'd been operating for years with different methods and victim selection—was still out there.Still hunting.Still using the lake as both weapon and burial ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The antiseptic smell of Duluth General Hospital's cardiac wing had become as familiar to Isla as her own apartment over the past three days, though considerably less welcoming.She lay propped against carefully arranged pillows, her amber eyes fixed on the television mounted across from her bed where Channel 7's noon broadcast was delivering what felt like the hundredth iteration of the David Kucharski story.The coverage had evolved from breaking news through investigative expose into something approaching community catharsis, as if Duluth was collectively processing thirty years of deception through obsessive media consumption.
