The dog bounded out to greet her as if she were a long-lost friend. “Dog in a trailer. This is a first even for you, Amanda Doucette,” she said, laughing in spite of herself as she straightened up. “Oh, come on in then, I’ll put the kettle on. Tea?” She paused on the steps. “Or something stronger?”
“Something stronger would be heaven!” Amanda’s whole body ached. She reached into her saddlebag. “I picked up some wine.”
Inside, the house was small and simply furnished in what looked like hand-me-downs, but the curtains and cushions were made of bright prints bought for pennies in Asian and African street markets. Late-afternoon sunshine spilled through the bay window, setting the reds and golds in the fabric aflame. Amanda followed Sheri into the kitchen and filled the dog’s water bowl while Sheri opened the wine.
“This is a treat,” Sheri said. “All I have in the fridge is half a bottle of blueberry wine. I don’t keep much in the house because Phil —” She broke off and turned quickly to get the glasses.
Amanda hid her surprise. Phil had never been much of a drinker, despite the many opportunities afforded by the foreign aid circuit. Back in the living room, Amanda sagged into a rocking chair and took a grateful sip of wine. In the silence, Sheri paced to the window and stared outside. For the thousandth time, Amanda suspected.
She approached the issue carefully. “What’s Phil doing, Sheri?”
Sheri swung around, tightening her jaw. “I thought he was going camping with you.”
“Well, he was. He wanted to show me the whales and icebergs. He was very proud of your island. His adopted home.”
Sheri blew out a small puff of air. Dismissive and impatient. “Where are you two supposed to be going?”
“That’s the thing. He was looking into it, checking out the most spectacular places and what campsites were open where I could take the dog. He was going to tell me where to meet him.”
Sheri’s eyes narrowed, and Amanda could almost see her searching her thoughts. “Whales and icebergs. Now there’d be plenty of them in Newfoundland. Could be anywhere, from the Avalon Peninsula near St. John’s to Gros Morne on the west. Even Twillingate, in Notre Dame Bay just up north there —” she pointed “— that would be the closest.”
“I think he wanted something wild. Not a place full of B&Bs and tourists.”
“Probably not the Avalon, then. But it’s a big, empty island most of the year. Lots of rocks and ocean to choose from.”
Amanda took another small sip of her wine, which was already going to her head after the long drive. Sheri, she noticed, had almost finished hers. “Did he drop any hints? Any place he really wanted to see?”
Instead of answering, Sheri turned away from the window. “You must be hungry after that ride. I’ve got some cookies in the cupboard.”
Amanda followed her back into the kitchen. “Didn’t he talk about the trip at all?”
Sheri’s back was rigid as she rummaged through the shelves. “No, he didn’t. That was between him and you. He knew I wasn’t thrilled. He just said it was something he had to do. Something you and he had to do.”
Amanda hid her surprise. “I’m sorry, I thought … he said it was your idea.”
“Did he, now?”
Amanda cast about for a way out of the hole she’d dug. “He was doing it for me, Sheri. To help me get past the awful time in Nigeria. He thought your island — his island — would give me a lift. That’s all. I would never —”
Sheri gave an odd, strangled grunt. “Since when have you needed help with that?”
“I’ve been kind of stuck back at home. I couldn’t just go back to my old life on the front lines, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do next.”
“And you figured a few whales and icebergs with my husband would do the trick?”
So there it was. Tossed on the floor between them like a sack of stinking garbage. The rebuke and bitterness. The unspoken jealousy. Amanda wanted to say Phil and I have been friends for a long time, since graduate school, and we’ve been through a lot together, but he chose you, remember? Without question, without doubt. But that wouldn’t be enough.
Sheri had piled almost the entire box of cookies onto a plate before Amanda reached out to stop her hand. “Sheri, Phil loves you. Always has. You were his rock during that terrifying time. But Nigeria wasn’t like other posts. You just don’t walk away from it. I needed a way to heal, and I know Phil needed that too.”
Sheri managed a brusque nod, stared at the plate of cookies and eventually heaved a sigh. Her words tumbled out, as if they had been dammed up for months. “Yes, damn it. I know that. I’ve tried to be patient this past year. Tried to keep our home stable and happy, for Tyler’s sake as well as Phil’s. But he shut me out with this fucking, monstrous wall. Everything’s hunky dory, he said. I just need a little time, a little space. Don’t nag me. Goddamn! I’m not a needy wife, you know that, Amanda. He said I didn’t understand, but I did. I haven’t lived my whole life on this sheltered little island. We met in Senegal working with AIDS orphans, for God’s sake!”
“Nigeria was different.”
“He knew that going in! He chose to go there, even when I told him not to. He chose it —”
“Aid workers were pulling out in droves. He knew they needed him.”
“And Tyler and I didn’t? And now we’re the ones paying the price!”
Not as much as the kidnapped school boys, Amanda thought. Anger was never far from the surface these days, and now she felt it bubbling through her, tugging at her thin, fraying reins of control. She tamped it down. “I know you are. So is Phil,” was all she said.
Sheri snatched up the plate and stalked back into the living room. “Why do you think I’ve tried so hard? I know he’s a good guy and if he’s got a fault, it’s that he cares too much. He can’t turn his back on suffering.” To Amanda’s surprise, tears welled in Sheri’s eyes. Sheri was seasoned and strong, and tears didn’t come easily.
Amanda softened. “So what happened, Sheri? What’s this about?”
The tears hovered on her lashes. For a long moment she said nothing. Took one breath. Two. “I turned my back,” she whispered.
Amanda said nothing. Waited.
“I didn’t mean to. I needed … a friend. At first it was just for Tyler. This friend. He was Tyler’s hockey coach and kind of took Tyler under his wing while Phil was away. Later we’d all go out for pizza after the game, and he fixed a few things around the house here. Shovelled the drive during that awful winter last year.” Sheri broke off. She picked up her wine with a trembling hand, brought the glass to her lips, and drained it. Once again, Amanda fought her own rising temper.
“Nothing happened. I mean, not then. When Phil came home, the guy backed off. But Tyler … Phil spent long hours out in the bush, fishing, riding his dirt bike, doing I never knew what.”
“You don’t have to tell me all this, Sheri. I get it.”
Sheri must have heard the grit in her voice, for she shot her a glance. Flushed. “No, you don’t! Because I didn’t want it to happen! I know that sounds like a cliché, but I love Phil. He’s Tyler’s father. Tyler needs him, not some hockey coach! But the Phil who came home was a stranger. He pushed us both away. Tyler didn’t understand why my friend no longer did things with him and why his own father ignored him. This cold, brooding, Mr. Unreliable was hurting my son.”
Don’t pretend you did this for Tyler, Amanda wanted to say, but she held her tongue. “Our work is brutal on relationships,” she managed, strangling on her self-control.
“You can’t imagine how helpless I felt,” Sheri said. Then she paused, as if she heard herself. Flushed. “I’m sorry, I guess you can.”
“Yes.”
“And I know my problems sound trivial compared to Phil’s and yours. They are trivial! But … but …” She raised her hands in futile defeat.
>
“Okay, so what happened? You started seeing the guy and Phil found out?”
Sheri thrust her chin out. She had always been a fighter and hated to be cornered. Amanda’s challenge was enough to energize her. “No. I finally realized I couldn’t help Phil if he wouldn’t let me, but I could help my son. So I told Phil I was leaving him.”
“When?”
“A week ago. I told him I’d met someone. I thought maybe it would be the jolt he needed. He wanted to know who, but I wouldn’t tell him.”
“And how did he …?” Amanda let the silence hang, too upset to trust herself with more words. The image of Phil in Nigeria, haunted and hollow, rose before her.
“He took off into the bush for four days, and when he came back, he said I was right. He’d been a bastard and he was glad I’d found someone who treated me better. But he still wanted to be a good father to Tyler, so he hoped the father-son camping trip was still on.”
Amanda felt a sliver of fear slip through her gut. Tyler had never been part of the plan. She and Phil couldn’t predict what demons would be dredged up, what drunken rages and howling tears, what cathartic challenges the wind and the cliffs and the surf would hurl at them. It was not an adventure for a child.
But now Phil had cut her out and had taken off with his son, after feeding Sheri a pile of lies about forgiveness, understanding, and fatherly concern. Amanda knew Phil. He had always loved Sheri, but during the deepest darkness of Nigeria, he had clung to her memory like a drowning man. Afterward, he had ignored the advice of counsellors and debriefers in his headlong rush to get back to her.
Five days to put all that behind him, to master his rage and despair, and to reach a state of calm forgiveness?
Not a chance.
Instinctively she snapped her fingers to call her dog to her, so that she could sink her fingers into her soft, warm fur. Reading her distress, Kaylee nuzzled her and licked her hand. Amanda took a deep breath, stepped back from her fear, and rallied her common sense.
“What gear did he pack?”
“Camping stuff — tent, sleeping bags, cooking gear, life jackets.”
“Boat? Kayaks?”
Sheri shook her head. “Those are still out back. He said you guys would rent what you need.”
“Navigational gear? Sat phone, personal-locator beacons, GPS?”
“You know Phil. He likes the old-fashioned way.”
“Didn’t he at least take his cellphone? I’ve been texting him and he’s not answering.”
Sheri shrugged. “I haven’t seen it. He may have it on him, but it could be turned off. He does that when he doesn’t want to talk to people.”
Amanda pulled out her own phone. “We should check in the house. If it’s turned on, we’ll hear it. We might find some clues too.” She punched in Phil’s number. She listened for ringing as she walked through the kitchen and dining area into the small den. The house was neat and full of local art from their travels, but no maps or guidebooks had been left on the tables to provide clues. When Phil’s cheerful voicemail message came on, she dialled again.
“Do you mind if I check upstairs in your bedroom? It’s ringing, so it’s turned on. He may have left it there.”
Sheri waved her hand in permission. “Since you called this morning, I’ve pretty much torn the place apart, but be my guest. Phil’s been staying in the spare room since he came back from Nigeria. He has trouble sleeping so he’s often up reading or watching TV. He says he feels better not disturbing me.”
Amanda nodded. The depths of night were always the worst, when the wakeful mind filled the darkness with fiery images, screams, and the incessant yammer of self-doubt. She mounted the stairs, listening for a phone. Kaylee bounded ahead of her as Amanda had taught her, providing comforting reassurance that no danger lay ahead. Phil’s little room was a mess; bedding was flung back, drawers opened, and clothing strewn about. Papers were spilled all over the desk, and Phil’s laptop was open.
Sheri came up behind her. “I tried it,” she said. “But he must have changed his password. It used to be ‘password.’”
They both shared a spontaneous grin. How like impatient, cavalier Phil.
“Do you mind if I take it?” Amanda asked. “I’ll try to figure it out later.”
When Sheri shrugged her acceptance, Amanda closed the laptop and picked it up. She scanned the room, but there were no telltale maps or brochures, and the only books in the bookcase were dog-eared thrillers and university texts from his global development studies.
No sound of a cellphone ringing, either.
Tucking the laptop under her arm, she went back downstairs, with Sheri at her heels. “Let’s check the shed.”
Like their house, their backyard was neatly kept. The grass was lush and mowed, the perennials trimmed and mulched. Gladioli were swollen with buds, and purple asters and nasturtiums spilled over their beds. Phil’s kayaks and small aluminum fishing boat were stacked on racks beside the shed.
As unreliable as Phil was with people, he had always taken excellent care of his physical space, as if it at least was under his control. Amanda opened the shed door. Inside, garden tools and bicycles hung on walls, and supplies and equipment were stored on shelves. Hockey and ski equipment was suspended on the beams overhead for next winter. A mower and snow blower took up one corner, a stack of winter tires another.
All the usual equipment of a middle-class homeowner. Nothing unusual struck her. He had an entire cabinet of fishing paraphernalia, but no guns or hunting gear. Phil had grown up in rural Manitoba with an annual family tradition of duck and deer hunting, but since his first encounter with tribal violence overseas, he had rejected all guns.
But that was before Nigeria.
Amanda turned to Sheri, who was examining his supply of fishing rods. “Did he have a gun?”
Sheri whipped her head back and forth. “He hates them now more than ever. My … my friend wanted to take Tyler moose-hunting last fall — that’s almost a Newfoundland rite of passage — but Phil blew a fuse.” She paused, fingering the long, slim rods. “He’s taken two of his salmon rods and his wading gear. That’s not much help, since salmon brooks and rivers are everywhere.”
“That’s good, though,” Amanda said. “It shows he’s still following a plan.”
Her cellphone had gone to Phil’s voicemail again so Amanda dialled a third time. From deep in the farthest corner of the shed came the muted sounds of a trumpet call. Both women rushed over. The sound was coming from somewhere in a pile of equipment beside the fishing cabinet. They tossed aside a folded tarp, dug out a bag of fertilizer, and began to shove aside the stack of tires. The trumpet trill grew louder. Finally, half hidden beneath the tires, Amanda found the phone.
The front screen was completely filled with notifications, most of them text and phone messages from Sheri and Amanda, none of them even opened, let alone answered.
Sheri craned her neck over Amanda’s shoulder to catch a glimpse. Seeing the unread messages, she swore.
“Oh, spectacular! So now he doesn’t even have a phone!”
Still squatting in the corner, Amanda glanced around the shed. How had the phone ended up buried under the tires? Someone had to move a tarp, a bag of fertilizer, and four heavy tires in order to hide it there. That made no sense. If Phil had simply put his phone down while collecting his fishing gear, or if it had fallen out of his pocket, it should have been sitting in plain sight, on top of the tarp, not underneath.
It was almost as if he had hidden it on purpose. But why go to all that trouble? If Phil wanted to get rid of the phone, so that no one could reach him or track him, why not just throw it in a Dumpster on his way out of town?
She tried to imagine the twisted path of Phil’s reasoning. He had discarded his phone, but rather than throwing it away, he’d left it within easy earshot of the house. Had that been de
liberate? Had he known that a little ingenuity and detective work would discover it? Was he counting on that? Was he counting on the confusion and worry that discovery would provoke?
Amanda held the phone in suddenly nerveless fingers. Did he want Sheri to find it, she wondered? And to know that he had chosen to cut all ties? Did he want her to know that he was beyond reach? Beyond salvation?
The ultimate revenge.
She stood up, bumping into Sheri in her haste to turn around. “I think you better call the police.”
Chapter Three
To Amanda’s surprise, Sheri balked. She leaned over to peer at the spot where the phone had been found. “He could have just dropped it and it slid down there.”
“But he would have looked for it.”
“Maybe it fell out of his pocket while he was getting his fishing gear, and he didn’t even notice until after he left. Phil’s like that, you know. Mr. Unreliable, remember?”
“But he’d have a checklist. All those years of training —”
Sheri set her jaw and headed out of the shed. “He would hate it if I called the cops on him. Even if he did leave the phone behind on purpose, so what? He just needs his space and time. This is a small town, and people have sharp tongues and long memories. He’s having a hard enough time fitting in without having this written on his forehead. He’ll come back when he’s had time to sort himself out.”
Amanda hesitated. She didn’t want to scare Sheri by pushing the panic button prematurely, but Sheri’s denial of the darker possibilities seemed odd. “I’m not so sure. He’s been walking the edge a long time, and I don’t think he’s thinking clearly. God knows what he’ll do if he’s desperate.”
They were crossing the grass toward the house, and Sheri turned to search Amanda’s face. “He would never hurt Tyler.”
Despite her words, there was uncertainty in her eyes. Amanda didn’t respond. Desperate people hurt their children all the time, sometimes from the depths of a depression so black they believed they were saving their children from an impossible world and other times from a vengeful wish to hurt their partner by taking away the thing they loved most. “But what about hurting himself? Has he ever talked about ending it all?”
Fire in the Stars Page 2