Fire in the Stars

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Well, you won’t find a place in Conche, either,” the clerk was saying. “It’s hardly larger than a broom closet itself.”

  “I’m meeting a friend there, and she has a tent.” He shrugged ruefully and shifted his heavy bag to ease his shoulder. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  Chris approached the desk. Was this man trying to cozy up to Amanda? “Excuse me, sir,” he said, thinking fast. “But the police have sealed off Conche at the moment. There’s a major search being conducted in the area.”

  “I know there is. My friend is right in the middle of it. Sealed off? Why?”

  “Danger to the public, sir.”

  “Danger to the —” Fedora broke off, his eyes narrowing. He looked Chris up and down. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop! You really think Phil Cousins is going to go around killing innocent bystanders, even if he did kill that old guy?”

  Chris hid his surprise with an effort. Reporters intercepted police bulletins all the time, but the man’s choice of words suggested a more intimate knowledge. “May I see your identification, sir?”

  Mr. Fedora looked about to protest, but seemed to think better of it, as if he knew the wisdom of staying on the good side of the cops. He dumped his bag on the floor and, from a thick stack of cards, he pulled out his Canadian Association of Journalists card and his driver’s licence, both of which Chris examined closely. Matthew Goderich, from a town in New Brunswick that Chris had never heard of. Likely little more than a crossroads and a few cows.

  Then the name clicked into place.

  “I’m a reporter,” Goderich said, “but I’m also a friend of Amanda Doucette and Phil Cousins. We’ve shared several … adventures together.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Goderich.” Chris held out his hand. “I’m Chris Tymko, also a friend of Phil and Amanda’s.”

  Goderich arched his eyebrows as he gave Chris a moist, pudgy hand. “Not a cop? My instincts aren’t usually wrong.”

  Chris smiled. “They’re not wrong. But I’m here off-duty, as a friend.”

  “Ah. Then we have something in common.” Goderich sighed as he bent to pick up his bags. “Can we grab a drink somewhere? If I’m going to sleep in my car, I better be fortified.”

  Chris hesitated. He knew Matthew Goderich wanted to pump him for information. He’d already had more than enough drinks trying to keep up with Willington, and he wasn’t confident of his ability to hold his tongue in the face of a seasoned reporter’s questions. But he had to admit he was curious to find out the inside, unreported details of Phil and Amanda’s ordeal in Africa, as well as the other shared adventures the man had hinted at. And who knows, he thought as he led the way to a corner table in the lounge attached to the inn. If he liked the man, maybe he’d take pity on him and offer him the spare bed in his own room for the night.

  Matthew dropped into his chair and swung his bag down beside him with a groan. The hotel clerk popped the caps off two beers and plopped them down before sashaying away. Matthew rubbed his hand over his greying stubble as he watched her disappear.

  “I don’t suppose I can get some food here too. I haven’t eaten since Deer Lake.”

  “Not at this hour,” Chris said. “Count yourself lucky she opened up the bar to serve us.”

  “Oh, she did that for you, my friend. Not some pot-bellied, balding old hack like me.” He lifted his hat briefly to reveal a polished bald dome.

  Chris grinned. Despite his reservations, he liked Matthew Goderich. “The hat earns you points, though. There’s nothing but baseball caps from here to St. John’s.”

  Matthew took a long, grateful swig of his beer. He had a creviced, pock-marked face, and up close Chris could see the stress of years carved into it. He slouched in his chair and tipped his hat back to give Chris a friendly smile. “How do you know Phil and Amanda?”

  And so the questions begin, Chris thought. But this one was harmless enough. “I met Phil at an ice-fishing derby last winter. We’re both new to the island — well, everyone who doesn’t have six generations of ancestors buried in the local cemetery is new to the island — and we hit it off. We like the same things. Angling, hiking, flying.”

  He figured that was close enough to the truth, but Matthew fixed him with a steady gaze. “Still. You dropped everything to come up here looking for him.”

  Chris shrugged. “You’re here too. I guess there’s something about the guy, and what he’s been through. If anyone deserves a helping hand …”

  Matthew twirled his bottle. “So what exactly happened? Do the police honestly think he killed that old hermit, or do they have other suspects?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not part of the investigation. Even if I was, I couldn’t tell you, Matthew.”

  Matthew held up his hands. “I’m not here as a reporter, I’m here as a friend.”

  “Right.”

  To his credit, Matthew gave a sheepish, dimpled grin. “Can you turn off being a cop, even when you’re not on a case? It’s who we are.”

  Chris couldn’t argue that. “Right now there are too many wild cards at play for me to even hazard a guess about who’s done what.”

  “You mean like Amanda wandering around in the wilderness looking for him.”

  Chris said nothing.

  “Oh for Chrissakes, Tymko! Any fisherman south of St. Anthony can tell me that. And they can tell me a boat has been spotted on a deserted stretch of shore halfway up the coast. I learned that much making small talk with the girl at the gas station next door. Yeah, I’m a journalist. Smelling out information is in my blood. Making connections is in my blood. But I’m here because I care about those two people. I know what they’ve been through. Phil is one of the good guys. So is Amanda. Good guys are often the first casualties in our brutal, treacherous world, whether it’s in the corporate boardroom or the international aid game. If I can also give them a voice, to make their efforts heard above the banal chatter that passes for daily news these days — some starlet’s latest rehab or Will and Kate’s new baby — then what’s the harm in that?”

  Chris saw his chance. “What exactly did happen to them in Africa? Beyond the obvious stuff in your articles. You hinted that they were betrayed by the Nigerian government. That the government forces knew in advance about the planned attack, but didn’t warn them, and that their own private security force ran away.”

  Matthew had drained his beer and he sat for a while staring at the empty bottle. Finally he sighed. “I’m far too tired to try to explain all the intricacies of post-colonial, sub-Saharan West Africa. Suffice to say, these are some of the poorest countries in the world. Corruption and payoffs are rampant. Education, health, and other services are almost non-existent in many places, so anyone who comes along with an offer of a paycheque, the promise of a bigger piece of the pie, or the threat of violence is going to get followers. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a big corporation, a rival leader, or an Al Qaeda knockoff, it’s the same principle — join our team and we’ll take care of you. Don’t join us, you better watch your back. No different than the street gangs in urban slums. It creates a balance of sorts until a turf war erupts.”

  Chris had been born in farm country and had had remote rural postings, so he had only a third-hand grasp of the urban gang culture. But power and poverty were a toxic mix in isolated communities as well. “Is that what happened?”

  Matthew shrugged. “In essence. The turf being as much of that unstable, exploited part of Africa as the so-called rebels could capture. Some petty thug pumped up on half-baked jihadi rhetoric and supplied by the international arms market decides to take control of a remote corner of the country. It’s not difficult. Kidnap or behead a few villagers, issue death threats to others, bribe some underpaid officials and give a bunch of kids an AK-47, a paycheque, and a cause. And suddenly you’re the new Somebody. And don’t forget the power of YouTube in spreading the news.”


  “So are there no good guys?”

  Matthew bobbed his head ruefully. “Sorry, I’ve been on the ground too long. I don’t mean to characterize all reformers as venal and self-serving, and or to make light of the situation. Not the struggles the locals endure nor the dangers these jihadist groups pose. Nor indeed of the suffering of aid workers like Amanda and Phil, who are just trying to help the people. Amanda and Phil were both working on the education side — setting up classrooms, designing curriculum the kids could actually relate to — stuff we take for granted over here. Education, health, and a sustainable economy will go a long way toward combatting the power and appeal of these groups. That’s why the groups are so adamantly opposed to it.”

  Chris mulled this over. It seemed impossibly complex and far away, although he’d seen similar struggles on a smaller scale in the Native communities in the north and west. At least in those communities, jihadist extremism had not taken hold.

  He leaned forward. “My friend Phil seemed to be tormented that he hadn’t done more. That he hadn’t seen the danger signs ahead of time and hadn’t saved the kidnapped boys.”

  Matthew’s eyes grew flat. “He couldn’t have saved them. Their own security guards, some barely more than kids themselves, betrayed them and joined the attack. Got a better offer, no doubt, or one they couldn’t refuse. But on top of that, one of the boys Phil did try to save — a kid almost the same age as his son, who had shown real promise as a student — was among those they killed, to show that no one should mess with them.”

  Chris felt sick. He pictured Phil as he’d last seen him, clowning and playing with the local kids at a winter fun day. Phil had organized a three-legged snowshoe race that had everyone collapsing in the snow in laughter. What did it cost him to keep that awful memory at bay?

  “What about Amanda? Your newspaper article just touched on her ordeal superficially. Something about trying to smuggle a group of girls to safety in a neighbouring village.”

  “Right. At the time, they were afraid the girls were the kidnap target, not the boys, because of the Boko Haram kidnapping earlier. It turns out this time they wanted boys, to be child soldiers or suicide bombers. Not that it mattered. The girls would have been raped, sold, or killed either way. But …” Matthew broke off, pressing his lips tight as if to stifle the words.

  “I know she didn’t succeed. What happened?”

  Matthew shook his head. Thrust his empty beer bottle away and reached down to pick up his bags. “It’s not my story to tell. If Amanda wants you to know, she’ll tell you. Meanwhile I’ve got a car seat to squeeze into.”

  Chris noticed a faint red flush creeping up Matthew’s neck. Over his years as a cop, he’d become adept at guessing the reasons for evasion, but the reporter stymied him. Matthew had been so free with his information about Phil, so why had he clammed up when it touched Amanda? Had the failure and the shame been all Amanda’s, or had Matthew been complicit in some way? Or was there a more personal reason?

  “Look,” he said on impulse as Matthew hauled himself to his feet. “I’m staying at the inn here and there’s a spare bed in my room. You’re welcome to it. Beats a Ford Fiesta hands down.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As he manoeuvred his boat back into Conche Harbour the next morning, Chris scanned the village in vain for signs of Amanda. The streets were awash in official vehicles and trailers as the full force of the investigation descended on the little place. The RCMP forensics van had arrived, and the mobile incident command was parked at the top of the hill, its roof bristling with antennae and satellites. Trailers and trucks crowded Harbour Drive, and as Chris was securing his boat to the wharf, a Zodiac from the Integrated Border Enforcement Team chugged into the harbour. At the front, a civilian in typical fisherman’s garb was uncoiling a rope, and in the stern, he could see two Mounties conferring. When the civilian leaped ashore to secure the boat, Chris recognized him as Casey and hurried over to intercept him.

  “Any news on Phil Cousins?”

  Casey hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the officers.

  “Here, let me give you a hand.” Chris grabbed a tie rope and lowered his voice. “Did you see anything? Phil? Amanda?”

  “We was up toward Croque, checking out that report you got of a boat washed up.” He paused. “We found it. Two boats, in fact. The first one was that old boat we leaves in the back harbour to go across to the cape —”

  “You mean the one we thought Phil had taken over to Stink’s place. That we saw swamped with water?”

  “Well now, we don’t know that for sure. We saw some wreckage, das all.”

  “Okay, okay. What about the other boat?”

  The two officers had jumped ashore and were coming their way. Casey gripped Chris’s elbow to lead him up the road. “The other one was Thaddeus’s boat that he lent Amanda.”

  Chris sucked in a sharp breath. “Any sign of Amanda?”

  “None. Not Phil, not Amanda. Now the old boat had a hole in her side, but Amanda’s was fine. Motor still working and everything.”

  “So she went ashore to search. Maybe she thought Phil was in the other boat.”

  Casey shrugged. “You knows a woman’s mind. But these fellas here —” he jerked his head toward the officers behind them, one of whom Chris recognized as Constable Bradley “— they’re after looking for Stink’s boat, not that leaky old runabout. Stink’s boat was spotted a couple of days ago, racing up the coast toward St. Anthony. The boys had a look around, but I told them there’s nudding but mountains and ponds and tuckamore in there. No roads or trails to anywhere. Nowhere for Phil to escape if he went ashore there. Anyways, they think he was using Stink’s boat, which is stronger and faster.”

  “What?” Chris spun around to intercept Constable Bradley as he came down the wharf. “But how did that little boat get there?”

  “Well, sir …” The constable looked sheepish. “Incident Command thinks maybe Cousins towed it up there and ditched it to throw us off.”

  Chris stared at him. Laughed in spite of himself. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Or else the little boat drifted there by itself.”

  Standing opposite, Casey rolled his eyes. “Some feat, that.”

  Bradley nodded in wry agreement. “Anyway, Stink’s boat was spotted on the ocean a couple of days ago, so IC thinks he’s probably in St. Anthony by now, if not gone to the mainland already. Not slogging through the bush.”

  Chris gave up arguing the point. “But what about Amanda Doucette? She’s been missing for two days now.”

  Casey snorted. “They’re some mad at her, Jesus b’y.”

  “Are they sending anyone back up there to look for her?”

  The constable looked around as if hoping for an escape route. “We don’t have the manpower, sir. Incident Command says the priority has to be apprehending the suspect, who poses a risk to the public.”

  “But she could be in serious trouble!”

  “According to our information, she went into the wilderness voluntarily and Mr. Casey here says she’s well equipped.”

  “Except most of her supplies are still in her boat,” Casey interrupted.

  “But she has access to them, and her boat is in working order. Her whereabouts and safety are not a concern at the moment.” The constable flushed, as if even he could hear the cop bafflegab. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, we’re stretched as thin as a poor man’s soup on this one. We’ve got air surveillance, officers on all the highways, Border Enforcement at all the ports … I’m betting Miss Doucette steams back in here by this afternoon, but if she’s still not here by nightfall, maybe Incident Command will call out the ERT team to search for her.”

  Chris’s mind raced. Amanda had been adamant that Phil would never hurt her, indeed would never hurt anyone. But how could anyone be sure? He marched up the h
ill to the command truck, where he found the newly arrived critical incident commander, Sergeant Noseworthy, setting up maps and communications equipment. Noseworthy was a tall, cadaverous woman with cropped grey hair and a tight slash of a mouth, which pulled down in disapproval when he requested permission to help in the search.

  “Sergeant Amis informed me of your involvement, Corporal, and also of your personal friendship with the suspect,” she said in a deep, smoke-ravaged voice. “So you can’t help.”

  “Would you authorize a civilian ground SAR operation to search for Amanda Doucette? I can coordinate that.”

  The woman turned back to continue sorting cables. “That seems premature,” she said in a dismissive tone. “And I won’t put civilians in harm’s way with an armed suspect potentially loose in the area.”

  Chris sensed the dead end. “Then let me at least look for her myself. I’m concerned for her welfare. I have a boat and I’d like to go up the coast to check on her situation.”

  “No.”

  “But the suspect is probably in St. Anthony or beyond by now. You said so yourself.”

  The sergeant turned back to study him. Her blue eyes were unwavering. “The Emergency Response Team is on its way, and they’ll take charge of the search. I don’t want you in the way, Corporal.”

  “I’m dressed civilian. I’ll look like a fisherman out in a skiff.” He could see her calculating. “At least I can contribute some help, ma’am, until ERT is up to speed.”

  She scowled. “Strictly on your own reconnaissance. And get your ass back down here by noon.”

  Chris hid his smile. “Thank you, ma’am. But can I have a radio and a sat phone so I can communicate what I find?”

  “I would insist on it.”

  As he fought his way up the coast, Chris kept a close eye on boat traffic, hoping to spot Amanda on her way back to port. The weather was picking up, and a fierce wind threatened to blow him onto the rocks. The sky was a swirl of blue and grey, and the ocean was an angry chop that tossed his boat around like a cork. He clutched the gunwales and the tiller with all his might, trying to steer into the waves to avoid being swamped. Despite his best efforts, spray drenched his rain suit and splashed into the bottom of the boat.