Fire in the Stars

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Okay, but someone tied an anchor to the man’s body, so it’s more than just natural death. What is the medical examiner thinking? Just a cover-up?”

  Willington shrugged. “I don’t think they’re ruling out criminal negligence causing death.”

  “But someone’s hiding something! They went to some lengths to prevent the body from being found, and at the very least, the victim wasn’t provided the bare necessities of life by the captain of the ship.” Sensing his patience and his temper fraying, Chris took a cautious sip of his beer. He’d had little to eat that day and a second beer wasn’t really what he needed before dinner. Facts and theories tumbled through his mind, trying to connect. A boat carrying fugitives, possibly foreign, had been spotted not far south of St. Anthony, and that boat had later been found by some village boys hidden onshore even farther south. The fugitives had vanished without a trace. Neither the coast guard nor the local villagers had seen any sign of them.

  “Have Border Services or the RCMP got anywhere identifying the ship that the dead man was travelling on?” he asked.

  “If he went into the water where he was found — a big if, given ocean currents — then he was inside Canadian waters. And if we connect him to the men in the lifeboat —”

  “I think we should. Absolutely. At least as a working hypothesis. How many boats were carrying foreign nationals?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, there weren’t any foreign vessels in that area in that time frame.”

  “That we know of.”

  Willington gave his loud, boisterous laugh. “What? You’re suggesting there’s something we don’t know?”

  “Foreign trawlers sneak in all the time, no matter what the official line is.”

  “I’m shocked. But anyway, it might not be a trawler at all. The Feds are looking at smuggling operations, possibly involving foreign ships heading for the St. Lawrence. Because there’s one last piece of intel …” Willington leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows and clearly relishing the suspense. “The dead man had a piece of paper in his pocket. Forensics is still trying to decipher it all, but it appears to be a name and phone number with a 315 area code. That’s Saint Lawrence County in upstate New York. Not much there except big empty spaces, but its main claim to fame? It borders the St. Lawrence River.”

  He watched as Chris drew his own conclusions. The St. Lawrence River formed a thousand kilometres of undefended, sparsely populated border between Canada and the United States. With its many islands and hidden coves, it had a long, colourful history as a smuggling route between the two countries for everything from guns and bootleg liquor to illegal refugees, who often paid thousands of dollars to crooks and conmen in their search for a better life.

  Northern Newfoundland was a long way off course, but if the boat had originated in northern Europe and had travelled through the North Sea, it’s possible it was headed across to the Strait of Belle Isle and down to the St. Lawrence.

  “So the hunt is now ramped up for those fugitives from the lifeboat,” Willington was saying. “They might provide some information on the smuggling theory as well as the man’s death.”

  “If they were desperate to escape detection, they might even have been involved in his death,” Chris said, his thoughts turning dark. There are a lot of desperate people on the run in the wilderness around here, he thought. I hope to hell Amanda is not smack in the middle of it all.

  Amanda stood on the side of the hill, looking around her. More grey, endless trees and ravines. Even the sky was a grim, gunmetal grey. The adrenaline of earlier had long since faded from her system, leaving her shaky and more tired than ever. Where was the goddamn sun? Would it hurt to give her a little glimpse, so she’d have a clue as to her direction.

  She studied the pattern of moss and lichen on the trees — another basic orienteering technique — but it seemed to be everywhere, clinging to the trunks and branches like a grey shroud. Perhaps if she were a native Newfoundlander, she would be more adept at reading the land, but her knowledge of the lush jungles of Africa and Asia were no use to her here.

  She listened for sounds of surf, and thought she detected a distant whisper, but it evaporated in the wind. For good measure, she shouted Tyler’s name and cupped her ear for a response. No response. Only Kaylee, who bounded over to drop a stick at her feet.

  In spite of herself, Amanda laughed. “Okay, princess, we need to get some food into our bodies, and then you’re going to put that nose of yours to something more useful than finding sticks.”

  She struck out toward what looked like a clearing, pausing to pick berries and to turn over rocks and rotten logs along the way. Her years overseas had taught her not to be squeamish. Frogs, snakes, snails, and bugs were excellent sources of protein, the latter preferably deep fried to a nice crunch. In Asia they showed up on elegant restaurant menus as well as morning market stalls. Bugs would not be her first choice for breakfast, but when starvation loomed, they would do in a pinch.

  The clearing turned out to be a small lake — Newfoundlanders would call it a pond, as if every body of water were measured against the enormity of the sea. She and Kaylee both drank from a small stream flowing into the pond, and Amanda ate more berries growing along the shore. She stuck to partridgeberries, which she recognized, and bright coral berries that seemed safe. But still her stomach roiled.

  The dog watched her intently as she ate, and Amanda gave her a regretful smile. “Sorry, princess. I know I’ve fed you every day of your life, but this morning you’ll have to harness your wolf DNA and try to catch us something.”

  Having seen refugees survive for days on the move without food, provided they had water, she knew she and Kaylee would manage. While she filled her water canteen, she took stock of her options. Tyler was her overwhelming concern. There was a terrified young boy on the loose in this wilderness, possibly injured or being hunted by the person who’d killed his father.

  But she was surrounded by four or five hundred square miles of mountains, bogs, forests, and ponds. She had limited emergency supplies, no weapon, no navigational tools beyond her wits, and no idea where she was. In the twists and turns of her trek through the dense tuckamore, she could have been wandering in circles. She had heard no sounds of search helicopters or boats along the shore. If they were looking for her at all, they were nowhere near.

  Common sense told her she should try to find the coast. From there, not only would she be more visible to searchers, but she might be able to find her boat and go for help. But it might take her a whole day to find the coast — twenty-four long hours in the life of a starving, frantic boy. Moreover, she didn’t know which direction led to the coast. With no compass, no sun, and no sound of surf, she could flounder in the bogs and tuckamore for days.

  I need a good vantage point, she thought, peering through the trees at the surrounding hills. She headed toward the tallest one and soon found herself scrambling up the steep incline on all fours. As the trees grew shorter and sparser, the barren rock of the summit came into view ahead. I should be able to see for miles, she thought, quickening her pace eagerly. Beside her, Kaylee grew rigid. The hair on her back rose, but she made no sound.

  “What is it, princess?”

  Kaylee backed up, belly flat to the ground, and circled to cower behind her. Her every muscle radiated danger. Her own fear spiking, Amanda stopped to take in her surroundings. She could see nothing. She crept forward cautiously, keeping low under cover of the bushes. She peered over the boulder and froze. The rocky summit offered no shelter, and in among the sedges and dwarf berry bushes was a large black bear.

  The massive, shaggy creature was on all fours, staring back at her.

  Amanda ducked back behind the boulder and waited for her pulse to slow before risking another peek. The bear appeared to be alone, probably foraging for berries, but Amanda searched the shadowy undergrowth for signs of a cub. Kaylee stayed
safely behind her, and Amanda offered a silent thanks to her for not racing out to bark. She tried to remember what she’d been taught about bears. First rule; never run away. The bear will chase, at speeds of up to fifty kilometres an hour. Keeping a watchful eye on the animal, she groped behind her to secure Kaylee on her leash.

  Second rule; talk to it in a deep, calm voice and make yourself as big as possible. Easier said than done. She slipped her backpack off and balanced it on top of her head. Then she tried for as calm a voice as she could muster. “We won’t hurt you, Mr. Bear. We’ll just leave the hilltop to you.”

  Third rule; back away slowly.

  “Let’s go, princess,” she said, stepping backwards. One foot, another foot.

  The bear huffed and swung its head back and forth. Kaylee yanked backwards, her nostrils flaring. The bear reared up.

  Gripping the leash more tightly and struggling to keep the backpack raised, Amanda continued her careful retreat. Her foot slipped, sending rocks and gravel tumbling down in a rush of noise. She crouched, holding her breath as she listened for the bear’s charge. Nothing. She lifted her head to look. The bear hadn’t moved.

  Amanda continued to talk in a quiet, level voice as she backed down the slope. Bit by bit she put distance between herself and the bear, until finally she reached the bottom of the ravine. Then she ran full tilt through the woods all the way back to the pond. Kaylee ran beside her, her tail tucked and eyes wide. When they reached the shore, Amanda collapsed on a rock to catch her breath. She waited and watched until she was sure the bear had not followed, and only then did she allow herself a nervous laugh.

  “Well, princess, that idea was a bust!” she said. “Here we are back where we started. Any other bright ideas?”

  Kaylee was drinking from a trickle of water seeping into the pond. Amanda’s hopes lifted. Streams flowed downhill toward the ocean. If she could find the flow of water leaving this pond, she could follow it, perhaps all the way to the ocean.

  For what felt like hours, Amanda slogged around the perimeter of the pond, sometimes ankle deep in reeds and muck, following each trickle of water to its rocky end. Kaylee was bounding through the brush, tracking smells and chasing squirrels. Although Amanda paused often to eat berries, she was feeling light-headed by the time she came across a steady stream. She followed as it meandered through the berry bushes, wormed around boulders, and seeped through bright green moss. Afraid of losing it, she fought through brush and bog, tearing her clothes and flailing at blackflies. Blackflies, she thought with disgust. In September!

  Finally she spotted a shimmer of water through a break in the trees ahead. Hallelujah! She quickened her pace, straining to hear the sound of surf and the cry of wheeling gulls. The water was too calm. Too silent. Maybe it was a protected inlet. Maybe the ocean lay just beyond the ridge ahead. Nature was so coy, hiding secret pathways through the faceless, lookalike land.

  When she finally reached the edge of the water, she was gasping for breath and wet with sweat and swamp. She simply stood and stared.

  Another pond. This one five times the size of the first. It would take hours to circle it in search of the exit stream. Useless, fucking waste of time! She roared her frustration aloud, her curses floating back to her across the rippling surface of the pond. She cupped her hands and shouted Tyler’s name. Nothing. A cluster of ducks quacked their anxious surprise in the tall reeds nearby.

  Kaylee was paying them no attention as she roamed with her nose to the ground. “You’re a Duck Toller,” Amanda grumbled. A duck could be dinner for both of them, as could a fish or two from the pond if she could figure out how to catch them.

  “Kaylee!” she shouted, waving in the direction of the ducks. “Go get it!”

  Kaylee jerked her head up, ears cocked. She had something clamped in her jaws. Had she managed to catch something? Urgently Amanda called her and the dog bounded forward, still clutching the object in her mouth. She leaped nimbly over deadfall and dodged around rocks. As she came closer, Amanda could see the object, about the size of a football, was caked and sodden with black mud.

  Kaylee dropped it at her feet triumphantly and stood back, tail wagging. Amanda bent to peer at it. A shoe! She rushed to the water’s edge to wash it off, revealing a black-and-khaki running shoe with a camouflage motif. With the mud washed off, it looked clean and new, as if it hadn’t been in the mud too long. Amanda compared it to her own foot, which was a woman’s size seven. This shoe was about the same size.

  The size of a boy, not a man.

  Her pulse quickened. Clutching the shoe, she began splashing along the path Kaylee had taken. The dog bounced beside her, clearly pleased with her trophy. Then she raced ahead to stand over a muddy hole.

  Amanda studied the mud, which was criss-crossed with paw prints and gouges, but through it all she could clearly make out human footprints — three partial treads with the same deep ridges as the shoe in her hand. Water and rain had not yet washed the treads away.

  She raised her head to scan the dark, silent forest. “Tyler!” she shouted over and over. No answer. But the find had galvanized her. She was on the right track! Tyler had been here and was perhaps less than half a kilometre away, scared to reveal himself.

  “Tyler, it’s Amanda!” she called. Then she turned to Kaylee, who was looking up at her as if awaiting instructions.

  “Good girl!” she exclaimed, stroking the dog’s head and gesturing ahead in the direction the footprints were leading. “Now go find it!”

  With a flash of tail, the dog wheeled about and set off, as if she were playing her favourite game. Which she was.

  Kaylee tracked more quickly than Amanda could, but from time to time Amanda called her back so that she could study the soil. Tyler — if indeed it was Tyler — had not chosen the least obstructed route along the water’s edge, but had headed into deep cover instead, slogging through the slippery moss and ferns of the dense forest. Rocks and deadfall lay in ambush to twist an ankle or wrench a knee. Amanda could see bits of moss ripped loose by his fleeing feet, and the deep, sinking holes left by his running shoe.

  For the first time she felt hope. Hunger and fatigue evaporated. Kaylee understood the task and showed no hesitation or confusion. Although she’d never had any formal training in tracking, Amanda had often played the game of hide and seek with her, and now that silly game, designed to entertain and tire her out, was going to pay off.

  Amanda moved as fast as she could through the rugged terrain, clambering over ridges and down ravines, sometimes on all fours to steady herself. At times she stopped to call to Tyler, and in the ensuing silence heard nothing but her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

  Until a faint report cracked the air. Two. Three. Kaylee froze, head up and ears flicking. Amanda had heard enough deer hunts in the Quebec countryside to recognize a rifle shot. Distant and indistinct, but enough to chill her blood. Kaylee was staring off to the right, where a boulder-strewn ridge blocked her view. Amanda called Kaylee to heel, her heart hammering as she crouched down to see what would happen next.

  The forest was serene. No shouts, no screams of pain, not even the warning chatter of squirrels and birds. Silence. Convinced it had been a gunshot, she leashed Kaylee again as they inched cautiously forward. The dog had lost her concentration. Sensing her master’s fear and probably spooked by the shot herself, she moved forward aimlessly, her ears flattened and her shoulders hunched. Amanda rubbed her back and pointed to the ground.

  “It’s okay, girl. Find it. Go get it, Kaylee.”

  Kaylee’s nose was up, sifting the air instead of the scent on the ground. A growl began to bubble in her throat.

  “Shh-h!” Amanda clamped her hand over the dog’s muzzle. Kaylee tore free and fought against Amanda’s restraining hand, pulling her forward. Her ears swivelled forward now and her whole body quivered. She moved low to the ground and dragged Amanda through the fer
ns toward the roots of an upturned tree. Amanda couldn’t see behind it and had no idea what dangers lay beyond. A bear? A coyote?

  A killer aiming his rifle directly at her?

  Kaylee was frantic with excitement. She tugged Amanda up over the rise, past a tangle of branches and around the huge root ball. Behind it, peeking out from the protection of his shivering arms, was Tyler.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Chris walked in the front door of the Mayflower Inn in Roddickton that evening, a short, toad-like man was arguing with the clerk at the desk. He had a frayed canvas travel bag slung over his shoulder, a rumpled leather jacket, and a fedora tilted back on his head. Perspiration ran down from his temples.

  “What do you mean, you’re fully booked? It’s almost the middle of September!”

  “Moose-hunting season, sir. It starts tomorrow. We get hunters here from all over the east coast.”

  Chris had walked by an entire row of heavy-duty pickup trucks parked outside and seen one small blue Ford Fiesta squeezed in the middle. Chris guessed it belonged to Mr. Fedora with the leather jacket.

  “Moose-hunting. Jesus!” Mr. Fedora wiped the sweat from his face. “Is there any other place in town?”

  The clerk smiled sympathetically. “There’s Betty’s, but she’s all full up too.”

  “One small bed. It can be in a broom closet for all I care. I’ve had a long flight and then a long drive up from Deer Lake. I just need a place to crash and a good stiff drink. I’m heading to Conche in the morning, so I’ll be out of the broom closet at first light.”

  Chris had been about to slip past, but the mention of Conche stopped him short. He sized the man up warily, noticing what looked like a camera bag and a laptop on the floor beside him. Press? And judging from the man’s accent, not the local Newfoundland press either. Had the vultures descended already?