Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Is that what all that activity is about down at the dock? A distress call?”

  The clerk’s eyes flicked to her screen, and she frowned.

  Chris tried again. “Sorry, I know you’re busy. I’m worried about my companion, who is already out on the water. Have there been any distress calls?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, it’s not that. I hope your friend has the sense to wait it out on land.”

  “Is it going to get worse?”

  The clerk adjusted some controls and spoke into her microphone to confirm some order. As an afterthought, she glanced at Chris. “Excuse me, sir, but you shouldn’t really —”

  “But my friend—”

  “Check the marine forecast,” she said impatiently. “We’ve got a couple of rough weather days ahead. Not a time for a paddling holiday.”

  Chris thanked her and went back outside. Clouds roiled angrily across the sky. The clerk was right; it was not a time to be out in a kayak. But where the hell was Amanda? Why had she not answered her texts or phone?

  He loved her independence of spirit, but sometimes it drove him crazy. He’d grown up in a large, boisterously close-knit Ukrainian family who never let a phone call or email go unanswered. But he knew Amanda sometimes went weeks, even months without talking to her parents and saw her brother only once or twice a year at obligatory family holidays. She had dozens of friends cultivated in her years overseas, but except for Matthew Goderich, there was no one she could call on in a crisis and no one she felt an obligation to. Until Chris came along.

  She was probably fine and having too much fun to give him a second thought.

  He climbed back into his truck and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, tamping down his frustration. Damn it, he couldn’t simply wait for word. At the very least he could go to Snug Harbour where he was to pick up his kayak and see whether the marina there had any news.

  The trip took him half an hour, even navigating the narrow, twisting road down to the harbour at near-reckless speed. He was surprised to discover both launching areas bustling with activity as boaters came in off the lake in anticipation of the storm. Pickup trucks and boat trailers jockeyed for position at the shore. He caught sight of an OPP SUV drawn up at the marina boat ramp, backing its boat trailer and Zodiac into the water. Another pickup truck with a kayak on top was parked on the grass, the name “Gifford Outfitters” displayed in modest blue letters on its door. A grizzled middle-aged civilian was down at the water’s edge helping the two OPP officers guide their Zodiac into the water.

  Chris parked his truck beside Gifford’s and strolled down to lend them a hand. “George Gifford?” he asked the civilian, whose skin was like leather burnished from years of wind and sun. When George nodded, he extended his hand. “Chris Tymko. I believe you’re waiting for me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get you your gear in a minute, soon as I finish here,” said George in a voice as weathered as his skin. Only his deep azure eyes looked youthful.

  “Any word on the party?” Chris asked. “Amanda Doucette isn’t responding to my texts.”

  “I haven’t heard from my son since yesterday,” George grumbled as he signalled to the OPP officer to back up farther. “Silly boy wanted to do this trip, insisted he could handle it. I hope he’s not trying to be a cowboy.”

  “Is that usual? I mean, for him not to be in touch?”

  “He’s a capable kid, I’m not saying he’s not. But it’s part of our protocol. You check in every day. And he knows how special this trip is. I wanted to give him the chance, but sometimes …” He shrugged. “You know kids.”

  Chris studied the sky uneasily. The water glistened coal-black, and even in the sheltered marina, the wind was rocking the boats against the docks. “The weather doesn’t look good.”

  “Yeah. He should have contacted me to tell me if they were heading in or waiting it out on shore somewhere.”

  Chris gestured to the OPP Zodiac. The officers were at the back of the trailer, unhooking the cables. “But this … it has nothing to do with them?”

  “Oh, no, no. This is a call from one of the island cottages. Some kind of medical emergency.”

  The Zodiac floated free of the trailer, and Chris and George leaned in to hold on to it while the officers parked the cruiser. They came down to the water’s edge with armloads of emergency gear, including cameras and crime scene bins. Chris’s curiosity spiked, but George fell silent the moment they approached. Within minutes the Zodiac was clear of the docks and accelerating out toward the open water. Chris turned back to George as they walked back up the boat ramp.

  “Crime scene?”

  George shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know the OPP is throwing everything they have at it. Rich Toronto family, probably they’re afraid of a bunch of pushy city lawyers.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The gossip chain will be buzzing with it soon enough, but for now, let’s have a look at your gear. Although if you’ll take my advice, you’ll stay right here, grab a room at the resort next door, and wait for the weather to lift.”

  “When is that? The Coast Guard said it could be days.”

  “Could be. But bay weather can turn on a dime.”

  Chris squinted out toward the open water to the west. The surface of the harbour was choppy but not impossible. He knew the passage to Franklin Island was partly sheltered, but there was a stretch across the open channel to the island. He was used to sea kayaking in the rugged North Atlantic, and he doubted this inland lake could put up a similar fight.

  “Do I have a couple of hours before it gets really bad?”

  George shrugged. “Depends on your definition of bad.”

  “Newfoundland-coast bad.”

  George laughed. “Yeah, you got a couple of hours. But take the inside channel and hug the shore where you can. The minute the waves get too much for the kayak, get the hell to the nearest shore.”

  The wind hit him the minute he rounded the end of Snug Island and entered the open strait. Up ahead lay the sprawling expanse of Franklin Island. He knew it wasn’t far, but as the wind fought his every stroke, the island seemed to shimmer farther out of reach. Waves slapped over his bow, threatening to swamp him. The lake kayak bounced around like a toy. He was used to an ocean kayak, which was longer and heavier, with a high bow designed to slice through waves.

  He bent his head, leaned into the wind, and powered forward. He had to keep paddling, because every minute he stopped to take stock or catch his breath, the wind blew him back over the hard-fought metres he had gained.

  The opposite shore inched closer, and eventually the wind and waves eased up as he entered the lee of the island. He drew up to shore and wiped off his map, grateful for its plastic sheath. Amanda had said they were planning to camp on the western side, which meant they’d be open to the elements. Would they have changed their mind and sought better shelter inland?

  He scanned up and down the shore with his binoculars. No pair of brightly coloured kayaks. He ate a quick snack and shoved off again, hugging the shoreline as he worked his way south. The wind tore at the pine trees and churned the water, masking all other sound, but nonetheless he shouted Amanda’s name at regular intervals along the way. Only one boat roared by in the main channel, and there were no birds or animals foraging for food in the sheltered inlets. Wise creatures, he thought.

  He worked his way south and was just paddling around a flat, scoured shelf of granite at the island’s tip when the wind hit. It had gathered strength over five kilometres of open water, and now its full force blew him onto the rocks. His kayak rose on a swell and slammed on the bottom with a loud crunch. Fuck! Chris poled with his paddle to push himself farther out. In that moment he glimpsed a flash of yellow moving in the shallows of a narrow crevice. Each wave tossed it back and forth. He approached cautiously, bracing his paddle on the rocks ahead to prevent a collision.

  As he drew closer, he could make out its square shape. He released his spray
skirt, clambered out of the kayak onto the slippery, algae-covered rock, and leaned in for a closer look.

  It was a waterproof foam paddle float. How long had it been there, and where had it floated from? The strong winds regularly blew bits of rope, water bottles, fishing tackle, and other detritus across the open lake until they landed up against the shores, but this float had no visible damage from the sun or water.

  George had lashed Chris’s paddle float to the back deck of his kayak, and although a powerful wave could knock it free, it was unlikely. Chris felt his first prickle of alarm. Had there been a capsize? Had someone lost their paddle float in a failed rescue attempt? With his binoculars he scanned the open water to the west. Nothing but whitecaps. The shoreline up ahead wove in and out in points and inlets, but he could see no traces of human activity.

  He secured the paddle float to his kayak and set off again up the coast, keeping a sharp eye out. Even if the group had camped inland to avoid the wind, they would have left their kayaks pulled up on the shore.

  He had travelled about fifteen minutes up the shore when he came upon a large, well-maintained campsite. He had passed a few smaller ones along the way, all of them deserted. If Amanda and Ronny had gone ashore to wait out the storm, this looked like the most likely spot. He threaded his kayak into a narrow opening and ran it up onto the soft sand.

  After he’d climbed out and carried it up out of harm’s way, he scanned the area. To his disappointment, it looked empty, but perhaps they had gone farther inland for added protection against the elements. He called out. Nothing. Checked his phone. Still nothing. Stretching his cramped muscles and rubbing his back, he began to scout the area. A clear path led from the rocks back into the shelter of the trees, and as he followed it, he caught sight of flashes of colour ahead. He began to jog, and soon the colours took shape.

  Two kayaks lay overturned and stacked against each other under the camouflage of the trees. Stencilled on the hulls were the words “Gifford Outfitters.” He glanced around, but there was no sign of tents or settlement, although the soft pine needle floor would have been ideal.

  He rolled the top kayak over and checked the hatches. The water pump and bailer were both clipped on, but the hatches were empty. However, in the second kayak he pulled a dry sack out of the rear hatch and emptied it onto the ground. Clothing and personal gear tumbled out — toiletries, quick dry shorts and shirts, rain suit, and rain boots. He held them up. Far too big to be Amanda’s. The tour guide’s? Why had he left his gear in the kayak while Amanda had not? And where were the tents and emergency gear?

  He rummaged through the pockets of the clothing, finding nothing but two crumpled receipts, one for gas in Parry Sound and the other for a large Tim Hortons coffee and doughnut.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Amanda?”

  Nothing came back to him but the distant hiss of surf rushing up the granite shore. He checked his cellphone, which had a weak but adequate signal. Still no response to his texts! He dialled Amanda’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Turned off or out of range? What was the woman doing?

  “Amanda!” he snapped into the phone, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I’m on Franklin Island, and I think I found your kayaks. Where are you?”

  As he spoke, he began to explore farther inland. The grass was flattened along a narrow path leading into the woods. Perhaps an animal trail or one of the many routes to the interior campsites and lakes on the island. Had they gone farther inland to seek better shelter?

  Buoyed by that hope, he began to trot up the path, scanning the woods on either side for tents or camping gear. The path led through copses of trees, marshy grasslands, crusty rocks and ponds, and back into more trees. Along the way, he spotted several flat, sheltered spots to pitch a tent. Why would they have ignored those? Where were they going, if indeed they had taken the path at all?

  As the wind lashed the first splatters of rain against his face, he cursed his own stupidity. He’d left his rain gear in his kayak. At the same time the path petered out on an expanse of rock and tufted grass. He cast around in a wide circle, trying to pick up the trail on the other side, but to no avail. He shouted. Phoned Amanda again. This time he let loose his frustration and alarm.

  “Please call me! I need to know you are safe from the storm!”

  He retraced his steps to the beach, harbouring the faint hope that he’d missed them and they were back at their kayaks. But the two boats lay as he’d left them. By now, bruised clouds smothered the sky and waves battered the shore in an angry black chop. Huge raindrops splattered the rocks and stung his cheeks. He dragged his dry sacks up under the meagre shelter of the pines and fished out his rain gear. He had hoped to share Amanda’s tent but as a precaution had brought his own small tent just in case things didn’t progress as he hoped. The baby pup tent would be dubious protection against a powerful storm, but at least it was easy to put up.

  Within minutes he was huddled inside, coaxing a flame from his tiny butane burner so he could make some hot tea. The temperature had dropped at least five degrees. Once the tea spread its warmth through his core, he began to consider his next move. The storm had come earlier than predicted and was gathering power. The sky was almost as dark as twilight, and although his watch displayed only 7:00 p.m., darkness would be upon him soon enough. There was no time to waste. From his own police experience in Newfoundland, he knew it was better to incur the anger of the local police than to leave it too late.

  He phoned the OPP in Parry Sound. The officer on the desk sounded harried. When Chris explained his location and his predicament, she fired off a few routine questions. “Are you in a safe situation? Do you have shelter, water, and food?”

  “I’m not worried about me,” he said. “I’m an RCMP officer myself, and I don’t like what I see. I can’t reach my friend. I’ve found her and her companion’s kayaks, but there’s no sign of them.”

  “Have you searched farther inland?”

  “Of course I have,” he snapped before drawing a deep breath. “They are very overdue for a rendezvous and not responding to my calls.”

  “The signal can be unpredictable there in a storm,” she said. “Are they experienced in the wilderness?”

  “Yes. One of them is a local outfitter.”

  “Who?”

  “Ron Gifford.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “And he’s with your girlfriend?”

  Chris bristled at her sceptical tone. “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe …”

  “What?”

  The woman giggled. A most unprofessional giggle. “You’re right, Ronny knows his way around these parts. I’m sure they’re just waiting out the storm.”

  “But —”

  “If they haven’t turned up by morning, call again.”

  “Will you at least take my name? And notify me if you hear anything?”

  “We’re pretty busy here….”

  “Just take my number, will you? Call it cop instinct, but I don’t like what I see here.”

  There was a long pause. He could hear paper rustling and radio chatter in the background. Finally, she came back on. “Very well.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Amanda’s anger came in waves as the afternoon wore on. She walked every inch of the little island, looking for the clearest views across the channel in the hope of spotting Ronny. Surely he would come back for her once he’d delivered Sophia to safety. Or he’d send a rescue boat. The bastard! He could have left her a note or waited until she’d come back down the hill. At the very least, he could have left her some flares. The fact that he’d wilfully jeopardized her safety was the most infuriating thing of all.

  As the clouds massed overhead and the wind whipped the open water to a frenzy, alarm began to take over. The water was now too rough and the wind too strong for even the most skilled kayaker. He couldn’t come back, and she was left to weather the storm on this tiny, exposed island. Far out in the open water to the west, s
he could see ships steaming north and planes droning overhead, but none came close enough for her to signal.

  When the rain began to lash the island, even the boat and plane traffic was no longer visible, and she realized no one was going to come before tomorrow. A grim determination took hold. She turned off her cellphone to preserve its battery and found a small patch of flat land tucked under the pines on which to pitch her tent, making sure to tie it firmly to the surrounding trees. Even so, it trembled in the wind and rain. She dragged all her gear inside, pulled on her rain suit, and set off to devise some SOS signals. Perhaps Kaylee sensed her anxiety, or simply the dangers of the storm, for she clung to her side, tail between her legs.

  Although a fire on the open shore was the most obvious way to signal for help, the flames would not last five minutes in the rain. Brightly coloured fabrics would have to do. She lugged her yellow towrope up the hill and tied it between trees in a large “H” on the flat, barren top. Not great, but perhaps a plane would spot it.

  Back down on the shore, she hung her red-and-orange dry sacks on the trees and arranged rocks in the shape of an SOS on the open slab of granite. As a final effort, she hung her white camp sheet from the tip of a scrawny pine. By now, darkness was gathering and both she and Kaylee were chilled and starving. She herded them both into the tent. In the morning, if help had not come, she would light a fire on the shore. Hopefully, by then Chris, or at least that little prick Ronny, would have reported her missing, and the search-and-rescue crews would be out looking.

  After drying off and feeding Kaylee her kibble, she inspected the food supplies Ronny had left her. The cold can of beans was unappetizing, but at least it appeased her hunger. Afterward, she curled up with the dog in her sleeping bag and lay listening to the roar of the wind and the lashing of the rain. The little tent shook and flapped, but it held. She willed herself to sleep.

  The nights always haunted her the most. Images leaped up, of screams and flames and stench. Of guns spurting, machetes flashing … of hiding in dusty ditches and in broken, abandoned towns. And for a year after the terror, of huddling behind the bed in her Quebec cottage, unable to separate then from now.