Another truth twisted to serve the moment.Survival stories like that existed, but they involved children in much more controlled circumstances, not adults who'd been trapped beneath lake ice for hours.Still, the crowd murmured hopefully among themselves, their faith in his expertise evident in their faces.
Twenty minutes of intense work opened a hole large enough for David to reach the body.The crowd pressed closer despite his earlier warnings, drawn by the drama of the moment.He could feel their anticipation, their collective hope that he might pull off a miracle rescue.
When he finally pulled Sarah Quinn's body from the water, her skin was marble-white and cold as the ice surrounding them.There was no pulse, no breath, no spark of life that even the most optimistic observer could mistake for survivability.But David went through the motions anyway—checking for vitals, attempting CPR on the frozen ground while someone in the crowd counted compressions aloud.
"Come on," he muttered, loud enough for the witnesses to hear."Come on, don't give up on me."
The arriving paramedics found him still working, sweat beading on his forehead despite the subfreezing temperature, his hands moving in the rhythmic pattern of chest compressions that everyone knew from television and movies.They took over with professional courtesy, but David could see in their eyes the same assessment he'd made the moment he'd seen her beneath the ice.
The woman had been dead for hours.
"You did everything you could," the lead paramedic said quietly as they loaded the body onto a stretcher."Sometimes the lake just doesn't give them back in time."
The crowd had grown during the rescue attempt, drawn by the sirens and the drama.Now they surrounded David, their faces filled with gratitude and admiration for his heroic efforts.They didn't see a failed rescue; they saw a man who'd risked his own safety trying to save a stranger, who'd fought against impossible odds with skill and determination.
"That was incredible," breathed the woman who'd suggested calling 911."The way you went right into action, you probably saved—I mean, you gave her the best chance anyone could have given her."
An older man clapped David on the shoulder."Son, I've lived on this lake my whole life, and I've never seen anything like what you just did.That woman's family should know she had someone who cared enough to try everything."
David accepted their praise with the proper mixture of humility and professional resignation, explaining that this was simply what he'd trained for, what anyone in his position would have done.But inside, warmth bloomed through his chest—not from the physical exertion, but from the genuine gratitude shining in their faces.
This was what he lived for.Not the successful rescues, though those were satisfying in their own way, but these moments when he could be the hero in someone else's story.When strangers looked at him with respect and admiration, when they saw him as someone who mattered, someone whose actions had meaning.
As the crowd began to disperse and the emergency vehicles pulled away, David packed his equipment with meticulous care.Tomorrow, there might be a story in the local paper about the brave search-and-rescue volunteer who'd risked everything trying to save a drowning victim.There might be interviews, opportunities to explain his training and dedication to water safety.
The thought sustained him as he walked back across the ice, where the body had lain.The lake stretched endlessly before him, beautiful and deadly, holding its secrets beneath the frozen surface.But David Kucharski had learned long ago that the lake's greatest gift wasn't the lives it occasionally allowed him to save.
It was the opportunities it provided for him to be the hero in someone else's darkest moment.
And there would always be another opportunity.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Shipwrecker was adjusting the tension on a winch cable when Tommy Hendricks appeared at his shoulder, the supervisor's boots crunching through the snow that had drifted into the maintenance bay overnight.
"Need you in Conference Room B," Tommy said, his voice carrying that particular note of careful neutrality that supervisors used when they didn't want to spook an employee but couldn't explain what was happening."Drop what you're doing and come with me."
The Shipwrecker straightened slowly, his weathered hands still gripping the wrench as his mind immediately began calculating possibilities.Random drug test?Safety violation he'd missed?Some bureaucratic nonsense about his pension benefits?He'd survived enough workplace summons to know they rarely meant anything good, but this felt different.Tommy's posture was too rigid, his eyes avoiding direct contact.
"What's this about?"he asked, setting the wrench aside with deliberate care.Forty-three years at Northern Star had taught him that showing concern was often more dangerous than whatever had prompted the meeting.
"Just need to ask you some questions," Tommy replied."Won't take long."
They walked through the shipyard in silence, past the familiar landscape of cranes and dry docks where he'd spent most of his adult life.The January wind cut through his work jacket, but the cold barely registered anymore.Lake Superior had a way of getting into your bones after enough years, teaching you to function despite temperatures that would send softer men running for warm offices and heated cars.
Conference Room B was a cramped space usually reserved for safety meetings and shift briefings, its walls lined with OSHA posters and company policy reminders.But today it held two people he'd never seen before—a tall man with graying hair and intelligent eyes, and a woman whose presence immediately commanded attention despite her compact frame.
"This is—" Tommy began, but the woman stepped forward with her hand extended.
"Special Agent Isla Rivers, FBI," she said, her grip firm and confident."And this is my partner, Special Agent James Sullivan."
The words hit him like a physical blow, though his expression remained carefully neutral.FBI.Here, at his workplace, asking to speak with him specifically.His mind raced through the possibilities while his body maintained the steady composure that had served him so well over the decades.
"FBI?"he said, allowing just the right amount of surprise and confusion to color his voice."Is this about Alex Novak?Terrible thing, that boy drowning like that."
Agent Rivers studied his face with amber eyes that seemed to catalog every micro-expression."We're investigating Alex's death, yes.Would you mind having a seat?This shouldn't take too long."
He settled into one of the folding chairs, his movements betraying nothing of the adrenaline now flooding his system.Forty years of hunting had taught him the value of stillness, of appearing calm while every sense sharpened to razor focus.These agents were here because they suspected something.The question was how much they knew, and how much he could deflect without appearing evasive.
