Fire in the Stars (4 page)

After Jason left, Amanda had picked up fish and chips for them from the local diner, and although Sheri had extended an offer of lodgings for the night, Amanda sensed her reluctance and declined. She had her own plans for the night. Tucked into her backpack were Phil's laptop and cellphone, neither of which Jason Maloney, as the cop on the case, had asked to see. All through the desultory dinner, during which Sheri kept one eye on the phone and the other on Tyler's empty kitchen chair, the devices had beckoned to her. Now, propped on the bed with Kaylee happily stretched out on the crocheted throw at her feet, she was finally free to open Phil's computer.

As the computer came to life, the cursor blinked stubbornly in the password box. Amanda tried the usual suspects —
Password
, his son's name, his wife's name, even her own — before typing in Nigeria. Nothing. Passwords were supposed to be memorable and unique. What could be more so than Nigeria? She cast about, mystified. Typed in the name of the village, and finally
Alaji,
the name of the boy who had died in his arms that last night.

Bingo. An array of icons opened up before her. She clicked on his email account and watched the messages flash across the screen as they downloaded. Dozens of emails from charities and businesses, Facebook and Twitter updates, the usual clutter of banal correspondence from cyberspace. She scrolled through the trivia in search of gems. There were emails from herself, of course, and from the RCMP cop Chris Tymko, whom Jason had spoken to. None of the messages in the past two days had been answered, or even opened.

Among the emails were replies from several campgrounds and one boat tour, but these were over a week old. She spread out her map on the quilt beside her to check locations. Phil had apparently been exploring options as far away as the Avalon Peninsula to the east and the Great Northern Peninsula to the west. No bookings had been yet made, but at least as of a week ago, Phil had still been planning their camping trip.

Frustrated, she checked his Internet search history and was surprised to discover it had been cleared. She knew people who cleared their search history every hour, but they were paranoid people living in dangerous places, exploring information that could get them killed. Had Phil brought his paranoia home with him, which was entirely possible, or had he wanted to erase his trail for a reason?

She knew that cyber detectives could still find the footprints he was trying to erase, but she had no such skill. Her vision blurred with fatigue and her eyelids threatened to close. Pouring herself another glass of wine, she set aside the laptop in favour of Phil's cellphone.

This time the password was easy to crack — the same boy, who even after a year obviously loomed larger in Phil's thoughts than his own family. Phil had never talked about him. He had simply thrust his body aside and raced to the children who were still waiting. Cowering. Hoping. It had been a long night.

The cellphone was synced to the laptop, so she ignored the emails and went directly to the history of his phone calls. Besides the calls and texts from herself and from Sheri, three texts stood out. Two received, one sent. All dated three days ago, just before she'd stopped hearing from him.

All to or from Jason Maloney.

She read the first, which was an invitation from Jason to get together for a beer. The next was from Phil asking when and where. The third named the place, a bar that Amanda remembered passing on the way into Grand Falls. Seven o'clock in the evening, three days ago.

Funny that Jason never mentioned a word of this.

She was tempted to drop by the bar to find out whether the two had actually met and whether any of their conversation had been overheard. But the pillows and the silky duvet drew her down into them, and she found she couldn't budge. Not a single muscle obeyed her. So she slipped naked between the cool cotton sheets and fell asleep.

T
uesday dawned blustery and cold, reminding Newfoundland that summer was an elusive and fickle partner in the yearly dance of seasons. On the western coast, a deluge battered the seaside coves, but inland in Deer Lake, it was reduced to a chilly drizzle.

The kind of weather Corporal Chris Tymko hated. As a boy from the prairies, he was used to endless summer days of wide-open blue sky punctuated by fierce thunderstorms that rolled across the flat lands like a freight train. In his previous posting up north, he'd learned to cope with violent, changeable storms and long months of darkness and snow, but Newfoundland seemed on the collision course between massive celestial forces. Humid warmth from the south and gales from the Arctic swirled over the knobby outcrop of rock, dumping snow, rain, and sleet, sometimes all at once.

Roads could turn slick in an instant, hurling cars into ditches and knocking power out for miles. Chris arrived at the Deer Lake detachment early for his morning shift, hoping to use the extra minutes to check for news on Phil Cousins before the duties of the day began. Thoughts of Phil had intruded on his sleep several times during the night, and although there had been no reassuring phone call from Jason Maloney that morning, Chris hoped for some information in the routine police chatter. Not knowing Jason very well, he didn't know whether the man would afford him the courtesy of a phone call, especially after the argument they'd had. Jason was a local Newfoundlander from Corner Brook, and he'd been known to use his connections and credibility to hog the upper hand in an investigation. But Chris figured that on his own home turf of Saskatchewan, he would act the same. Canada was a big and disparate place, full of regional suspicions and loyalties.

As he made a dash through the puddles to the station, he steeled himself for half a dozen reports of traffic accidents that would send him and his team out on the road again. Fortunately the dispatch centre was quiet, giving him time to power up his computer and finish his coffee while he perused the daily updates and alerts for news on Phil.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He looked up at the rivulets of rain trickling down the window, matching his bleak mood. Phil was one of the few true friends he'd made since being transferred here from Fort Simpson last spring. Not a work buddy, but a friend in spirit. Not only did they share an outsider Prairie farm-boy identity, but they also shared a love of salmon fishing and country music. And in the languid hours spent together with rod and reel, they'd discovered a deeper tie — wounds of self-doubt and loss that would take a lifetime to heal. Rarely talked about, but understood through a glance or a small, sad smile.

Chris knew that Phil's wound was much deeper and his self-doubt threatened to overpower him some days. He also knew the danger of trying to soldier on while keeping the truth hidden. Until abruptly a line is crossed and brains are blown all over the wall of the house.

If that happened, there would be no warning, no words of goodbye or regret. The most Phil might do is to go far away where those brains would not be found by the woman who had already endured more from him than she should.

If so, why had he taken his son with him?

Chris poured himself a second cup of coffee. His hand hovered over the phone as he debated whether or not to phone Jason. The man was a straight, linear thinker who took people at face value. Phil had told him he wanted to bond with his son, so as far as Jason was concerned, that's what he was doing. Unlike himself, Jason rarely had any self-doubts.

Even when he should.

Chris withdrew his hand as a surge of anger took hold. Jason was the last person who would admit to worrying about Phil. As Chris sipped his coffee, the outer station door opened and his colleague Ralph from the night shift swept through in a swirl of cold and rain. He shook off his mackintosh and hung it by the door before coming through to the interior. Chris looked up, relieved to be rescued from his thoughts.

“Anything going on out there?” Chris asked.

“Fender-benders. One accident on the 430 near Norris Point, but no major injuries. I sent Hollis up to handle it. Otherwise —” he grinned “— nothing on your watch so far but paperwork and highway patrol.” He nodded his head toward Chris's computer screen. “Did you read about the poor bastards spotted in a dinghy off the coast below Goose Cove?”

“Jesus! Wouldn't want to be caught out in that storm, especially in a dinghy. Kids? A fisherman in trouble?”

Ralph drained the dregs of coffee from the carafe, scowling at the sludge in his cup. “No self-respecting Newfoundlander would be out there in a dinghy. Half-brained tourists, more likely. Come up from Florida or over from Europe and think what's a little wind and waves? They won't last half an hour in that cold if they swamp.”

Chris scrolled through the alerts again. The one about the dinghy had come in at 7:00 a.m., barely past dawn, but to his surprise it had originated not from the detachment in St. Anthony closest to Goose Cove, but from RCMP headquarters in St. John's. He unfolded his long body and walked over to study the map on the wall. Goose Cove was near the very northernmost tip of the Great Northern Peninsula, where it jutted into the fierce and unpredictable currents of the North Atlantic, and where the warmer currents coming up the Strait of Belle Isle collided with the frigid water coming down the coast of Labrador from the Arctic Ocean. The strait served as one pathway for the St. Lawrence River on its race to the open ocean, and even he knew that the clash of temperatures, tides, and currents could create a wild sea.

For a moment he felt a twinge of fear. Phil was not a Newfoundlander born to read the language of the sea, but he'd gone in search of wild surf and whales. Would he be fool enough to venture out in a dinghy?

“Why is HQ involved?” he asked.

Ralph was fiddling with the coffee, measuring and pouring a new pot. He shrugged. “Some border-security issue. The fisherman who called it in thought the occupants might be smugglers.”

“Smugglers? What the hell would they be smuggling off the northern tip of Newfoundland?” Chris looked outside. The rain was slamming against the windows now, rattling like buckshot on a tin roof. “How could the fisherman see anything in this, anyway?”

“Well, that's the thing. Acted suspicious, he said. He says he went out in his boat to help but when they saw him, they took off out to sea.”

“They? How many?”

“Four or five. Way too many for the size of the boat.”

Chris felt a wash of relief. Not Phil! “That could mean anything. Maybe they had illegal fish in the boat. Or maybe they thought he was up to no good. They could have been tourists who never set foot out of the city. We used to get that up north too. People from Japan or Europe eager to see the wilderness, but with no idea how wild and empty it really is. Probably thought they could just dial 911 on their cellphones.”

“Except when help was offered, these guys headed the other way. That's what's got HQ in a knot. So the coastal detachments are on alert to keep their eyes and ears open. It's gone out on the Internet, TV, and radio too, so the locals will be keeping an eye out.” Ralph poured his fresh coffee, pried his wet boots off, and propped his stocking feet on his desk. “Let's hope those poor buggers aren't at the bottom of the ocean by now.”

Amanda was chilled to the bone by the time she reached the RCMP detachment in Deer Lake just before noon. Because it was located in an obscure corner of town off the main Trans-Canada Highway, it took her some time to find it, but her first glimpse of the sleek, modern brick building filled her with relief. It was not the remote backwater she'd feared, so maybe someone would have heat and a pot of hot coffee on the go.

She had left Sheri the night before on polite but tepid terms, with promises to keep in touch. Amanda knew her concern and love for Phil were genuine, but distrust and blame had wedged its blade between them. There was little to be gained by staying in Grand Falls. Phil was no longer there, and if she was going to help him, she had to figure out where he'd gone.

Over a sumptuous breakfast at the B&B, Amanda had scrutinized the map. She knew Deer Lake was the gateway to the Great Northern Peninsula, which jutted like a gnarled thumb up into the North Atlantic. A long spine of mountains ran down its centre and its ragged coastline was carved into rocky points and cozy coves. At its southern base, Gros Morne National Park attracted thousands of visitors to its ancient, glacier-scoured mountains and silent green forests. At its remote northern tip, the discovery of a
thousand-year
-old Viking settlement drew scientists, tourists, and history lovers from all around the world.

Deer Lake, and RCMP Corporal Chris Tymko, seemed like a promising place to start her search.

On her way out of Grand Falls, she'd dropped by the bar where Jason and Phil had arranged to meet. It was closed but, in response to her hammering, the door was eventually opened by a red-eyed man carrying a mop. He squinted at her doubtfully, but didn't invite her in out of the rain. They might have been here, he said, but it was a busy night and the music was loud. What's it to you? he wanted to know. She thanked him and left.

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time she nosed her motorcycle into the Deer Lake RCMP parking lot. She had not called ahead to alert Corporal Tymko that she was coming. She had sensed antipathy between Jason and him, and she wasn't sure whether it would extend to her as well. She wanted his first impression to be one of friend, not foe. If she were linked to Jason, or possibly worse, to Sheri, she might never earn his co-operation.

As she clambered off the bike and pulled off her helmet, a tall, rangy Mountie emerged from the building and headed toward a cruiser. He moved like a marionette, all angles and planes. Feet that flailed, elbows and knees that knocked against each other, and a nose like a ski jump beneath his visor cap. He reminded her of an overgrown teenager who hadn't yet figured out how his various parts worked together.

The effect was both comic and endearing. She suppressed a smile. Spotting Kaylee, he veered over toward her. As he drew closer, a beautiful smile crinkled his eyes.
Even better
, she thought with a self-conscious twinge. After hours on the road in the wind and rain, she suspected she looked like something spat out by the washing machine.

“Now that's a sight!” he exclaimed with no hint of the east coast lilt she'd come to expect. “Hey there, buddy!”

As usual Kaylee reacted as if she hadn't been patted in a million years. As he scratched her ears, he glanced up, first at the motorcycle licence plate and then at Amanda.

“All the way from Quebec?
Vous voyagez
… ah …
tr
è
s loin du Quebec
.”

She laughed and rescued him from his attempt at French. “Chelsea, just across the river from Ottawa. As Anglo as they come. And I was going camping by the ocean.”

Her emphasis on
was
provoked a raised eyebrow. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Corporal Tymko.”

Now both eyebrows shot up. “I'm Tymko.”

Beneath his curiosity, his blue eyes were warm. She felt some tension ease from her back. Over the years she'd become adept at sizing up friend or foe, for a split-second misjudgment could cost a life. She sensed she'd made the right choice in coming here.

“Amanda Doucette. I'm the friend who was supposed to go camping with Phil Cousins. I'm really worried about him and I'm hoping you have some idea where he's gone.”

Thirty seconds later she and Kaylee were ensconced in his small but cheery office. Mist fogged the windows and lit the room in a pale wash. While Amanda peeled off her wet rain gear, Chris poured her a cup of hot coffee and Kaylee some water. As the first sip coursed through her, she decided she'd never tasted anything so delicious.

“I'm very glad you came,” Chris said, swinging his desk chair sideways and jackknifing his gangly body into the small space facing her. “I've been thinking about him ever since Jason Maloney called yesterday. We were planning to go cod fishing up the peninsula later this month, but he hasn't been returning my calls.” He grinned. “We're both Prairie farm boys, never seen an ocean surf in our lives until here, except to fly over. So it's the blind leading the blind. But Phil says he feels most at peace when he's on the ocean. Maybe because he's not hemmed in.” He broke off, his eyes narrowing. “Amanda Doucette. Are you the one …?”

She nodded. “Nigeria? Yes.”

He leaned over to yank open his bottom drawer and pulled out a computer printout from a newspaper. Amanda recognized the
Ottawa Citizen
. From the large photo, she knew exactly what it was — a close-up of herself surrounded by children as she demonstrated the construction of a pyramid garden. Nigeria, in happier times. The village, flooded with refugees, had pitched in together to build new gardens, wells, schools, and clinics, as well as extra security. For all the good that had done.

The headline read
Heroes Against All Odds
, and under the photo was a smaller caption.
Canadian Aid Workers Fight to Save Village
.

The journalist, Matthew Goderich, had become a friend over the course of their ordeal and its aftermath. A stringer for the Canadian Press, he'd been ordered to return to Lagos by his employer when the Islamist insurgency worsened, but instead he'd insisted on staying on in the north as a freelancer. These stories need to be told, he'd said. No matter how many people back home don't want to hear them.

Despite the passage of time and the warm safety of the RCMP office, Amanda felt that familiar vice pressing her chest. Sensing it, Kaylee nuzzled her fingers.

“I dug this up when I first met Phil,” Tymko said. “What you two did was incredibly brave.”